


flight

by dustbear



Series: ghost lights [2]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Theatre, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-05
Updated: 2014-08-06
Packaged: 2017-12-31 13:53:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1032455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dustbear/pseuds/dustbear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At age thirty four, Phil Coulson had become a stage manager, after a heady and dramatic six week romance with a scene shop and theatre department, and an impulsive and confused young carpenter named Clint Barton. Eight months later, Clint Barton excised himself from Phil Coulson’s life.</p><p>So, at age forty five, Phil Coulson is the Managing Director of Macbeth’s Shield, a theatre company devoted to contemporary interpretations of the Shakespearean canon. And if he thinks of Clint Barton sometimes, a little bit bittersweet, and a lot of bitter, no one else has to know. </p><p>But now - it looks like Clint Barton is back in town.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the sequel to [The Stark Graduate Repertory Theatre](http://archiveofourown.org/works/807020), set approximately 10 years later. It will stand alone, though.

The first time Phil Coulson’s world falls apart, he is only twenty six, and it happens with a bang. When his Army Ranger squadron arrives on the scene, his extraction mission becomes a body retrieval mission and finds himself looking at the broken bodies of the majority of Captain Steven Rogers’ battalion, torn apart by an alarming number of IEDs. He puts himself together with the help of a psychiatrist at Walter Reed, eight years of pursuing a PhD in history, and later, the friendship of Steve Rogers himself, and a young carpenter named Clint Barton.

The second time Phil Coulson’s world falls apart, he is thirty four, and it happens with a bang, pun intended. Clint Barton breaks up with him during the Stark Robotics Theatre’s Midwestern tour. It happens in Springfield, Illinois, their tempers heavy, and their tolerance strained by six months on the road and broken down touring vehicles and too little personal space. They make up barely two days later, in Indianapolis, and the makeup sex is so loud that even Natasha Romanov starts to leave passive aggressive notes taped to their motel room door.

The third time Phil Coulson’s world falls apart, he is only two months older than the second time, and it happens with a whimper. Clint and Natasha have gone back to college to finish their undergraduate majors, and he is in Chicago’s O’Hare airport, waiting to fly home to Clint, waiting for three weeks off the road and three weeks to be reunited with the person that he believes to be the love of his life. Clint Barton breaks up with him via email. It is informative and impersonal, and it is an unpleasant way to find out that there is no longer a Clint Barton to fly home to. He drinks at the airport bar with a worried Tony Stark, and returns to an apartment filled with an apologetic Natasha Romanov, apparently his new roommate. He waits, but this time, Clint Barton does not return.

“The only thing I’m good at is running,” Clint Barton had said once.

Phil’s brain tells him that the job that Clint has left him for is a dream job, a well compensated touring carpenter gig with the famous Cirque du Asgard, and Clint would have been a fool to turn it down. His brain tells him that their recent long distance relationship with no sight in end had been wearing both of them down. His brain tells him that Clint Barton would be better off without him, as he is a man a whole decade older than the golden, resplendent boy. His brain tells him that he’ll be alright, because it won’t be the first time he has to piece himself back together, and it likely won’t be the last.

His heart - well, his heart just hurts.

So, at age thirty four, Phil Coulson had become a stage manager, after a heady and dramatic six week romance with a scene shop and theatre department, and an impulsive and confused Clint Barton. Eight months later, Clint Barton removed himself from Phil Coulson’s life, but at that point Phil Coulson already had a job, already had drummed himself out of his previous career, and was still a stage manager.

Phil Coulson's world does not fall apart for a fourth time. He knows better by then. 

And, so it goes.

Now, at age forty five, Phil Coulson is the Managing Director and co-Artistic Director of Macbeth’s Shield, a theatre company he founded with Steve Rogers eight years earlier, devoted to modern productions of the Shakespearean canon. And if he thinks of Clint Barton sometimes, a little bit bittersweet, and a lot of bitter, no one else has to know.

***

“The receipts look bad. I mean, they are bad. Really bad.” Maria Hill (who is usually more eloquent) says, waving her hand over the spreadsheets she’s handed out to the other two people sitting around the table. Phil had recruited Maria away from a non profit that helped seals wear sweaters, or something stupid like that; Maria had been happy to follow her college friend to the exciting world of non profit theatre, even if there was a significant emphasis on the lack of profit this quarter.

Steve Rogers, the Artistic Director of Macbeth’s Shield, rubs his temples. “I told you no one was interested in Henry IV, Part I.”

“It’s my favourite play.” Phil grumbles, but he knows that Steve is right. They should have done something more accessible, like A Midsummer’s Night Dream, or Much Ado About Nothing, or really, any one of the comedies, which always managed to boost their annual earnings.

As it stood, having lost their space the year prior, they were performing out of a warehouse that Tony Stark owned, although they were on thin ice with the fire marshal. Although, considering their attendance rates, they were unlikely to exceed building capacity limits anytime soon.

The rest of the meeting goes as expected, with Maria discussing their budget for their next production of Twelfth Night, and Steve excitedly describing his vision of a set that looked like the high rises of New York City. They were lucky in that regard, at least. Tony Stark, the critically acclaimed scenic designer, was long out of their budget, and had been since his first Broadway gig seven years ago, but he was still happy to design their off-off-off Broadway sets for nothing more than beer and pizza money. “We’re friends. Old friends.” Tony declared, every time Steve or Phil made apologetic noises, and although Phil was grateful beyond belief for the continued generosity, he does not ignore the way that Tony Stark’s eyes tend to linger a little too long on Steve Rogers.

“Alright, we’re done. Let’s get a beer.” Phil declares. It’s a tradition, or as much of one as traditions go. Difficult meeting, followed by beer - it made the budget shortfalls feel less painful.

“Um.” Steve says.

“Er.” Maria says.

“What?” Phil asks, noticing the incredibly guilty looks on his partners’ faces.

“Do you want to tell him?” Steve asks, his eyes pleading in Maria’s direction.

“You tell him.” Maria answers, barely skipping a beat.

“Cirque du Asgard is in town.” Steve says, and he doesn’t have to speak further because Phil is definitely intuitive enough to know what’s going on. He stands up from the table, abruptly. If he still had an office, he would march into it, but the makeshift warehouse theatre had a similarly makeshift backstage area, and a makeshift scene shop, and the makeshift offices had flimsy walls only about eight feet high.

Phil Coulson locks himself in his car, and he screams.

It was impossible to ignore Clint Barton. First, there were the excited headlines in all the regular backstage publications - Scenic Carpenter is Discovered by Cirque du Asgard, The Amazing Hawkeye Found in Scene Shop, Famous Archer Trades Bow Saw For Bow.

And everyone talked about it, even the ordinarily reserved Maria, and the extremely diplomatic Steve Rogers. It was impossible not to know that Clint Barton, scenic carpenter for the legendary Cirque du Asgard, had been _noticed_ by Loki Laufeyson, Cirque’s alternately reviled and loved director and founder, and taken under his proverbial wing. Clint had never really showed off his archery skills in public, but Phil knew that he used to sneak his bow and arrow out on tour off days, and shoot for hours at makeshift targets until his arms were sore and trembling. Loki must have seen him then, and Phil knew that it would be impossible to pretend that Clint was just another ordinary carpenter after that. Phil tries not to think of the evenings he’d spent rubbing those sore muscles, tries not to think of Clint Barton at all.

It was easy at first. After the heady excitement over Clint Barton and his new gig with Cirque du Asgard as a featured performer, the theatre community had stopped talking about him, mostly because Cirque du Asgard was doing a fantastic job at foisting out smaller theatres as they placed specialty long-term shows in sought after arts spaces, and didn’t hold back from hiring the best technical and performance talent, even it meant poaching it without apology. Phil considered it a reprieve - it was bad enough having the specter of Clint Barton slip into his thoughts without the added help of the gossiping theatre community around him to make it worse.

But then, there were the posters. And the billboards. And the commercials. And there was absolutely no way to ignore the fact that Clint Barton’s elaborately made up face was plastered up in Times Square, his eyes bright and mischievous, and all too painfully familiar. The posters in the subway had a brilliantly lit image - the distinctive work of Thor Odinson - of Clint in profile, arching his back while dangling upside down on a trapeze, his bow held aloft, with an arrow poised and ready. The commercials on television focused on Clint and their old friend Natasha Romanov, both dressed in elaborate costumes reminiscent of birds of prey, him a red tailed hawk, and her a peregrine falcon. They dance and they bend, elegant and perfect, and they are beautiful and young, and even though his heart threatens to shatter everytime he hears the now familiar music in the television spot, Phil has never changed the channel.

The show is called Flight. A Cirque du Asgard production, featuring The Amazing Hawkeye. Flight. “The only thing I’m good at is running,” Clint Barton had said once, so Phil thinks it is appropriate.

Maria taps on his car window. When he does not respond, staring pointedly out the other window like a petulant child, Maria unlocks the car with the keyfob he’d left on the table, with the rest of his stuff. She climbs into the passenger seat, closing the door behind her.

“If you’ve finished with your tantrum, I also brought your messenger bag and production binder.” She says, placing the items down by her feet. “Also, you are also on the guest list for tonight’s opening, if you would like to come.”

Phil groans. “No. I do not want to go see the show.” he snipes, because he doesn’t. He doesn’t want to see Clint Barton being young and flexible and beautiful. He doesn’t want to see Clint Barton being a star. He doesn’t want to see Clint Barton at all.

“Seriously, Phil? It’s been a decade, and you can’t even be cordial around your ex boyfriend, who has gotten us VIP seats, and a backstage tour, and an invitation to the cast and crew opening party?” Maria prods. “Also, Natasha is in the show too, and Thor and Banner have done really impressive work on it, and Stark and Pepper will be there too. It’ll be a college reunion, except only with people you like.”

“I don’t like Barton.” Phil protests. 

“Look, what he did to you was shitty, I’m with you on that. But he was twenty four. He was just a confused kid, and he had a lot going on in his life. And now he’s older, and he’ll apologize to you, and you two can be friends again.”

Phil scoffs, because he can’t be friends with Clint Barton. Not when he still wakes up at night with the ghost of a warm, happy presence against his side that smells like Clint, sweat and sawdust after a long day of working in the scene shop. Not when he still thinks of Clint Barton when he walks into an empty theatre, and looks up at the lighting grid, imagining that Clint might still smile down at him, his face bright and happy in the darkness. Not when he’s this pathetic, still obsessed over a boyfriend from over a decade ago, a boyfriend that it would never have worked out with anyway.

“No, thank you. I hope you enjoy the show.” Phil says, and Maria nods, understanding enough to leave him alone. She lets herself out of the car.

And if later, Phil finds himself driving in the direction of the beautiful new performance space by the waterfront, glistening steel and glass reminiscent of a Big Top’s tent, he tells himself that he’s just trying to do research on the arts competition in the city. And, if he stands in line to buy a general audience ticket, ignoring the limo that pulls up not a hundred feet away that contains Tony Stark and Pepper Potts, he tells himself that he’s just curious.

When the curtains part, and Clint Barton is standing still and taut and alone - and barely dressed, for that matter - on a tightrope stretched across the stage, and he falls, Phil tries not to shriek, even as a microsecond later, Clint is magically back on the rope. He's even more beautiful now, no longer a slightly awkward boy with limbs a little bit too long. His once shaggy mop of hair is now short and spiky, and even though Phil knows that Clint is covered in stage make up and glitter, he can't help but gasp at how perfectly golden Clint looks. 

He spots Natasha, and his mind recognizes Bruce Banner’s exuberant flourishes in the costumes, and Thor’s unique approach to lighting that washes the stage in glorious shades of purple and blue. He knows that there are almost two hundred performers in the show, attired like grand, colourful birds. But, he can only really look at one of them.

He hates himself for being there, but he can’t tear his eyes away as Clint grows his wings in the first act, writhing in mock pain as the feathers sprout from his back(Mock pain? He hadn't even known Clint was such a talented performer). His chest feels inexplicably tight when Clint loses them in the fifth act, falling like Icarus from a pair of silks. The lights track him across the stage, as Clint comes to an abrupt stop just a foot from the floor, wrapped up in a tight ball. He looks small, and hurt and alone, and Phil knows that that is not true. He can't be, he is Clint Barton, the star performer of a Cirque du Asgard production, and in less than fifteen minutes, after he takes his last bow, he will be surrounded by equally gorgeous men and women, willing to offer themselves to the evening's golden boy.

When the lights go out for the last time, and the audience jumps up and fills the space with thunderous applause, Phil chokes back his tears, and he’s gone before the curtain call.


	2. Chapter 2

It takes thirty minutes for Clint Barton to take his makeup off, and peel himself out of his elaborate costume. Which is enough time for Natasha Romanov(still in full makeup, but sans costume, because the wardrobe crew is intensely efficient) to gather up his old college friends and deposit them right outside his dressing room door. His heart pounds, unnecessarily, because the show was fantastic, and he is so proud of it. It had been his brainchild, and even though it was a gigantic and multi-year collaboration to bring the show from its tiny workshop stages to the full fledged production it is now, he knew that he’d been the primary driving force behind it. And he couldn’t be happier to share it with his old friends, and especially Phil Coulson.

He knew they hadn’t ended well. He’d been twenty four, alternately tempestuous and confused and irreproachable, and Phil Coulson had been patient and perfect. And he could never be the man that Phil Coulson deserved then, someone responsible and faithful and not all sorts of uneducated and fucked up like he had been at twenty four.

But now - he’s Clint Barton, star of a Cirque du Asgard production, and he’s made something of himself, something whole and confident and proud. He’s made a beautiful show, and he’s made himself a good person. He’s ready for Phil Coulson now, ready to show Phil that he is worthy now, he’s certain of it.

He still takes a deep breath before throwing open the door. Tony Stark is first to barrel in, as loud and boisterous as always, and thrusts the largest flower bouquet he’s ever seen into his hands.

“Wow, Barton, I’m impressed. Seriously impressed. I would have designed a better set, but hey, you look fantastic and limber. Very limber. So, you seeing anyone? I’ve got a few really good looking interns that would really appreciate your bendiness...” Tony prattles on and Clint laughs, because it really is very good to see Stark again. He had suggested that Cirque hire Tony to design the set for Flight, but Loki Laufeyson apparently had longstanding issues with Stark, and was vocally against the idea.

Pepper and Steve and Maria pour in just a step behind Stark, looking dashing in their suits and cocktail dresses and they are excited and congratulatory and happy. Clint can’t stop beaming. He’d meant to see them earlier, the moment his cast and crew established their New York residency, but they had all been so overwhelmed with their rehearsals, trying to make sure that their opening would be absolutely perfect. “I’ve missed your face so much.” Pepper says, as Steve claps him on the back, and their warm welcome feels even better than the three standing ovations he’d received just thirty minutes ago.

Thor and Bruce shuffle in too, and accept their well deserved accolades. Thor had been the first recruit to the Cirque family(He was Loki Laufeyson’s stepbrother, apparently) and he had recruited Bruce and Clint in short order to work in the wardrobe department and the scene shop, respectively. And now, a decade later, they were professionals at the top of their respective fields, and they had just launched their first original production. And here, surrounded with the people he’s come to call family, is exactly where Clint Barton wants to be. Well, almost.

Phil isn’t here.

“So - er, Phil couldn’t make it?” Clint asks, trying to sound perfectly casual and nonchalant.

Maria mumbles something about budget shortfalls and paperwork and grant writing deadlines, and Clint is perceptive enough to know that it is a blatant lie. But, tonight is his night, and he can’t let the disappointment mar his evening, so he swallows down the lump in his throat, and lets Tony Stark usher him out to meet the cheering legion of new fans.

***

Phil is actually staring at a pile of grant paperwork when a hungover looking Bruce Banner stumbles into the warehouse that currently hosts the struggling, but proudly independent theatre company, Macbeth’s Shield. Banner looks a little bit green, but he remains steady enough to flop over into one of the plush couches located in the furniture pile currently stored next to Phil’s office.

“Er, Banner?” Phil calls out, already stepping out of his office(barely an office, especially with just eight foot plywood walls) and grabbing a glass of water and some Excedrin on his way. “What the hell happened to you, Bruce?”

“Tony Stark happened to me.“ Bruce mutters, his head sunken into the farthest nook of the couch. He gratefully accepts the proffered glass and pills. “Tony Stark and one too many shots of top shelf tequila.”

“Er, yeah. He does that. Um, but why are you here?” Phil asks. “You know I have an apartment just a few stops away, right? I’ll give you my keys.”

“I was closer to here when I woke up on the subway. I think Stark wrote this address on my arm. I must have blacked out.” Bruce says, and Phil would worry, but the colour(pink, not green) is already returning to Bruce’s cheeks. “Have you seen my pants?” he asks, and Phil notices that - huh, Bruce is actually not wearing pants, although his purple boxer-briefs are thick enough to avoid immodesty.

“Our costume shop - which is really just a few garment racks and boxes - is over there.” Phil points. “I’d get you pants, but I figured you’re probably better at dressing yourself.”

“Oh, about that, I was talking to Steve last night. I’m going to design your next show. Twelfth Night, right?”

Phil’s eyes widen. Bruce Banner is one of the most talented costume designers he’s ever met, even back when he was still just doing college productions for too little money. “Are you serious? We can’t afford you - we haven’t been able to afford you for - oh, since you did your first off Broadway show.”

Bruce laughs. “I’m done at Cirque. The show is open and in Betty’s very capable hands now. And I was just thinking that I should rediscover my roots. Do some indie theatre, some scrappy, dirty, low budget stuff.”

Phil smiles. “Oh. Well, we’ve definitely got that scrappy, dirty, low budget stuff. Welcome to the team.”

Bruce wanders over to their makeshift costume shop, returning in a pair of old paint covered jeans and a soft cotton t-shirt screenprinted with Steve Rogers’ face. The shirt was from a production of Romeo and Juliet three years ago; the costume designer from the show had thought it was funny. Bruce gestures tiredly at himself with the very familiar self deprecating look on his face, and Phil thinks that maybe all will be well in the world, and his little corner of the theatre world.

Of course, that’s always when it all goes wrong.

Tony Stark’s arrival is not heralded by annoying loud rock music, although it might as well be, since he’s pushing a gigantic roadcase that is clattering up the ramp of their small loading dock. Right behind him are Steve and Maria, talking excitedly, their arms gesticulating widely even as Steve makes an useless attempt to help Tony with his awkward load. Right behind them, is Clint Barton, sunglasses on and a wide grin on his face, strolling in like the past decade had never happened at all.

“Bruce! Phil!” Steve exclaims. “Wonderful, just the two people I wanted to see. I’m calling a production meeting right now.”

Phil doesn’t really hear the words coming out of Steve’s mouth, because Clint is walking right towards him, strolling easily as if he’s been a friend all the while, and not a very cruelly estranged ex-boyfriend.

“Hi, Phil.” Clint says, pulling his sunglasses off, and Phil is startled to notice that Clint is smiling softly.

There are several things on the tip of Phil’s tongue, but the one that edges its way out is - “What the hell are you doing in my theatre, Barton?”

The smile disappears from Clint’s face, immediately replaced by a smirk. “Technically, it’s Stark’s building,” he retorts, a knife-sharp edge in his voice. “But, how’s your theatre doing, Phil? Ticket sales on the upswing?”

“Kids. Stop it.” Steve interjects. “Phil, Clint wanted to see you. Clint, our theatre is doing fine, and you’ll find out more in a second. Now, shake hands.”

Phil takes the proffered hand, but refuses to let it linger. It is easy to not look Clint in the eye as he does so. Even as he hates himself for it, he can’t help raking his eyes over Clint’s body, older now and quite a bit more muscular and ugh - he’s still just as stupidly hot as he was when he was an angry, confused, college student. Improbably hotter actually, and Phil can’t stop the blush from rising to his cheeks, but feels satisfied that it would likely be mistaken for anger. Because, he is angry too. Definitely angry.

Maria starts the impromptu production meeting ceremoniously, with a plastic container full of tiny fruit tarts leftover from Cirque du Asgard reception last night. They look amazing and mouthwatering, and Phil refuses to eat any of them.

“Clint has some really great ideas about Twelfth Night.” Steve says. “And a lot of the kids from the Cirque training program they’ve just started have shown a lot of interest in auditioning for the show. I know I was planning on directing it, but I was thinking that Clint and I could be co-directors.“

“Clint doesn’t have any directing experience.” Phil points out, not too kindly. “Clint has never even worked on any Shakespeare before.”

“Clint is sitting right here, so Phil doesn’t have to talk about him in the third person. And I just co-created a Cirque du Asgard show, I think I can manage to direct an indie theatre production of Twelfth Night.” Clint responds, and Phil wants to rip the calm smirk off his face.

“Have you even read Twelfth Night?” Phil goads. The words scare him a little as they leave his mouth. He knows that he’s going for the soft spots, remembers the troubles that Clint used to have with his reading and writing. But, he can’t stop, wanting Clint to hurt as much as he does right now. “I mean, the words are awfully big and complicated.”

Clint’s eyes narrow. “Yeah, I’ve read Twelfth Night. Amazing how I found the time though, what with my busy schedule launching a critically acclaimed, big budget show with world class talent.”

Steve jumps in before Phil can respond, which is a wise choice since no one at the table looked enthusiastic about bleaching blood out of concrete. “Phil. Come on. We agreed to switch off shows, right? You got Henry the IV, Part I, and Twelfth Night’s my show. And, I want Clint to co-direct it. He really does have some great ideas about incorporating circus elements into the play.”

Clint claps his hands together, attention pointedly turned away from Phil. “Great. So, Tony and I have been talking, and we have this awesome idea for a steel scaffolding that can be used as an customized acrobatic platform. Who’s the TD for the show? You said that you rotate the job?”

The table falls silent. Phil groans. They had lost their technical director the year prior, when Bucky Barnes had been poached away with the promise of a paycheck that implied that he might be able to retire someday. At least Bucky had gone back to their alma mater in sunny California to take Steve’s old position at the state college, and hadn’t been poached by Cirque du Asgard too. With the position open, and the remaining budget needed to hire a stage manager, Steve, Phil and Maria had agreed to rotate the job between them until they could find a replacement.

Steve had served as Technical Director for the last show, Phil’s production of Henry the IV, Part I that had obviously missed the mark with the last audience. Maria had TD’d their summer children’s show for Nick Fury, their visiting director. Which meant it was Phil’s turn in the rotation.

Phil considers begging Steve to take on the show instead, even with the knowledge that he’d be busy directing it. Steve’s a better and far more experienced technical director anyway, but Phil knows that he is competent enough, and he knows the space as well as Steve does, and he’s assisted both Bucky and Steve enough to do the job himself. But most of all, there is no way he’s backing down now. Not in front of Clint Barton.

“So, er, guys? Who’s the TD?” Clint asks again.

“I am.” Phil says, and he feels a little bit pleased at the way Clint Barton’s jaw falls open.

***

It’s not so bad, to Phil’s relief.

He’s had a lot of experience with his world falling apart, and now that he’s older and wiser and quite a lot harder, Clint’s reappearance in his life quickly dissolves from persistent heartache into an aggravating itch. It helps that Clint is apparently a jackass. After over a decade of missing the Clint Barton that he used to know, it is easy to just dislike the haughty dick version of Clint Barton that he apparently knows now. Clint has to perform or rehearse at Cirque du Asgard most days of the week, so he’s only available on Monday and Tuesday evenings, and is simple enough to avoid. Phil skips out on the auditions and table reads, and only goes to the rehearsals that Clint can’t make it to. Steve and Maria both seem really excited to have “the band back together,” and Phil feels quite a bit like the Grinch.

Clint, to his credit, stays mostly out of Phil’s way. The one production meeting they’ve had to had together was tense, but efficient, and Phil begrudgingly admitted to himself that Clint’s ideas about the production were actually quite good(to himself - he certainly wasn’t about to admit it to Steve, and definitely not Clint).

He does sometimes find himself in the building during the rehearsals. It’s a small rehearsal this evening, which is why Phil hadn’t anticipated Clint’s presence. This time,he really has to pee, but is unwilling to leave his tiny slapdash office, especially since it means he’ll have to cross the rehearsal area. He can hear Clint’s voice floating in over the not-quite-walls of his office.

He is about to consider the practicality of co-opting a Snapple Peach Iced Tea bottle for the purpose, when the warehouse falls silent. The usual sounds of a rehearsal packing up and leaving the building have not occurred, so Phil dares to hold his breath as he waits silently.

A voice speaks, and Phil recognizes it as David Alleyne, the talented young man cast as Sebastian in Twelfth Night.

“So comes it, lady, you have been mistook: But nature to her bias drew in that.  
You would have been contracted to a maid; Nor are you therein, by my life, deceived, You are betroth'd both to a maid and man.” he says, his voice loud and clear. “How’s that? Better?”

“Nope.” Clint’s voice replies. “Look, you are in love with Olivia. She is the most beautiful woman you’ve ever met. She is strong, and fascinating, and intelligent, and you’re just some guy who survived a shipwreck. You thought she was in love with you, and it was the most amazing thing to ever happen to you, even if you couldn’t figure out why. She is the one thing you don’t want to lose. And, you’ve just found out that she hasn’t really been in love with you, she’s been in love with your sister - this vague and abstract concept of you. How do you know she loves you now?”

“So, I’m doubtful?”

“The seeds of doubt have certainly been planted.”

“Holy crap...you make this relationship sound so depressing.” David says, chuckling nervously.

“Yeah, well, love sucks. Let’s take it from the top.” Clint says.

Phil swallows, trying not to choke on his tongue. Clint Barton displaying textual analysis skills on minor Shakespearean characters is surprisingly attractive, and he loathes the thought. He sneaks out through the loading dock, leaving the grant proposal he’s working on unfinished. He can hold his pee a little longer, if it means not looking at Clint Barton today.

***

Steve hires Jasper Sitwell for Twelfth Night, which is a very welcome distraction. Jasper is a competent stage manager that they’ve worked with several times before. Jasper, who had a barely hidden crush on Phil that Maria often cruelly mocked. Phil had filed Jasper’s not-too-subtle hints under “flattered, but not interested.” But then, Jasper really was cute, Phil thought, if a bit nerdy for his usual preferences.

Most of all, Jasper Sitwell was definitely not Clint Barton.

Their second production meeting is efficient with Jasper at the helm, and Phil finds himself enthusiastically discussing the design with Tony Stark and barely acknowledging Clint’s presence at the table. Clint doesn’t say much, just nods and hands a stack of safety standards to Tony related to circus rigging.

It is actually quite the feat, Phil thinks, this game that he and Clint appear to be playing, called “Ignore a person you are sitting at a table with.” They both appear to be excellent at the game, with no end in sight.

Phil doesn’t know what’s gotten into him, but when the meeting is over, and Steve is engrossed in a conversation with Clint about making the antagonist of Twelfth Night a clown, Phil turns to Jasper, who is shyly picking up the leftover documents from the table.

“Jasper?”

“Phil?” Jasper answers, startled to find Phil’s attention being paid to him.

“I was wondering if you’d like to grab a beer? It’s been...a rough day for me.”

Jasper’s eyes light up, although he fumbles his production binder and promptly drops it on the ground. “Really? Dude, yeah, that’d be great.”

Phil reaches down to pick up the binder, neatly slotting the stray papers back into it. He feels eyes on him as he stands back up again, and he’s quite certain that they’re Clint’s.

“Perfect.” Phil says, handing the binder back to Jasper with a broad smile. “It’s a date.”

He walks out of the theatre with his hand on the small of Jasper’s back, and he doesn’t turn around to check on whether Clint Barton's eyes are following them out.  
  


***

Tony Stark delivers his final scenic design documents in a packet of neatly drafted CAD files, and even though Phil can tell exactly which bits of the scenic design were Clint Barton’s brain children, it’s not a particularly difficult set to build, and he mentally makes a note to thank Tony for at least sticking to right angles this time. Tony Stark also designs a set that is approximately five times out of the budget, and makes up for it by donating pallets full of all the materials necessary, directly to the warehouse.

Steve helps him get the rehearsal platforms and walls in place, which is simple because they’ve built up enough stock to have a large number of platforms and flats in their standard inventory. They have some volunteers come in, former actors and some enthusiastic NYU students that Pepper Potts rustles up for them, but on Sunday evenings, there are no rehearsals, and Phil takes advantage of the scheduled quiet to start cutting the necessary steel for the next week’s set build.

The sound of the metal saw reverberates in the empty warehouse, and Phil relishes the steady rhythm of his work as he measures each piece of steel twice. He doesn’t work with music, unlike Tony Stark, who prefers the raucous cacophony of noise(Led Zeppelin and Black Sabbath being the perennial favourites) when he makes it down to the warehouse to pitch in with his set's construction.

He’s wrapped up in his work, so the clatter that sounds outside on the loading dock barely jolts him out of his concentration(He also has his ear muffs on. Safety first!). The warehouse isn’t located in the best part of town, and the homeless like to go through their recycling bins. But the smaller door next to the rolling steel door squeaks open, and a beam of yellow light pours in, lighting the far end of the shop that Phil hadn’t bothered to turn work lights on for. He pauses his work, and lifts his head, assuming that it’s likely Steve, come by to lend a helpful hand.

It’s not Steve, it’s Clint Barton, and he’s standing awkwardly in the door, holding a small stack of what look like wooden legs.

“Um.” Clint says. “Maria lent me her keys. She said I could use the shop for - “ He tips his head towards the wooden legs in his arms. “I bought these stools for my breakfast counter, but they’re four inches too tall, and she said I could come by to cut them down.”

Phil’s taken aback by Clint’s presence, so much so that he forgets that he’s not supposed to be nice to him. He wants to ask Clint why he can’t just use Cirque du Asgard’s scene shop, or what he’s doing slumming it down here in Tony Stark’s warehouse on a Sunday evening, but instead, he just blinks and says “Er, sure, whatever.”

Clint places his armful of wood down on a worktable, and Phil hands him a pair of safety goggles and earmuffs. “Do you need help?” Phil asks, not that he actually wants to help or anything.

Clint grins, the closest to an emotion(that isn’t arrogance) that Phil’s seen on his face for a few weeks. “I don’t need help operating the chop saw, Phil. You remember how we met, right?”

Of course Phil remembers. Clint, the swaggering and confident master carpenter, himself the new and nervous Theatre Practicum student. Clint, remarkably competent about all things carpentry, and remarkably bad at figuring out his own sexual identity. He remembers lots of things about that time - being recruited into the happy family of the Stark Graduate Repertory Theatre’s scene shop, declaring his affections for Clint in front of an academic disciplinary panel, the months spent on the road with Tony Stark and Natasha and tiny twin motel beds with Clint. He’d enjoyed all of it, up until Clint walked out, with barely a farewell note.

“Yeah, I remember how we met.” Phil says tonelessly. If he ends up glaring at Clint a bit, no one can blame him. “I remember torpedoing my academic career for you, about eight months before you dumped me via email.” He hadn’t meant to say that, but the bitterness wells up in his chest, and he can barely stop the words.

Clint’s eyes shift nervously, so Phil suspects that his ill-suppressed anger is noticeable.

“Look,” Clint blurts out. “I’m really sorry about how we ended, I know it was really fucked up, and I’ve been sorry for over a decade. I’m - I’m just really sorry, okay?”

For a moment, Clint looks like the lost young man that Phil fell in love with over a decade ago. Phil shakes the notion out of his head, because the Clint Barton standing in front of him today is certainly not. Still, he can forgive, can’t he? Even if he’ll never forget.

“Okay.” Phil says.

“Okay?” Clint splutters. ”Okay? I come crawling back to you, begging for forgiveness, and all you say is ‘okay’?”

Phil narrows his eyes. “First of all, you didn’t come crawling back to me. You came by to use my theatre’s scene shop, and I happened to be present. And you didn’t beg for forgiveness, you just casually apologized, after we’ve been sharing the same space for almost three weeks now.”

“Well, I am.” Clint says, and Phil shivers to see the familiar way Clint sets his jaw, the way he does when he’s absolutely certain of something. ”Sorry, I mean. And I hope you can be cordial to me as we work on this show, but if my presence bothers you, I’ll withdraw from it, and you won’t have to see me again.”

Clint’s voice is tense and something in Phil’s chest loosens a little bit. Is Clint really offering to leave? It would be easy for him to say yes, please get the fuck out of my theatre - but Twelfth Night isn’t his show, it’s Steve’s. And Steve wants Clint’s help, and the rehearsals really have been going well, and Clint is doing really innovative work within the walls of their makeshift theatre space - and all for free. And Phil might not be happy with Clint, and he might not ever be, but he is certainly man enough to admit that Macbeth’s Shield is a better theatre company with Clint in it.

“No, it’s fine.” Phil grumbles, staring down at his own feet. “Stay.”

“You want me to stay.” Clint says, and Phil expects a small laugh to be playing on the edges of Clint’s lips when he looks up, but Clint just looks earnest.

“Yeah, sure.” Phil says, ignoring the way that Clint lights up in response. “Um, I’m going to go back to my work now.”

Phil makes a point of putting his earmuffs back on, and pointedly returns to the task of measuring and cutting tomorrow’s steel. He can hear the muffled sounds of the chop saw, and the quiet clatter of wood as Clint efficiently cuts through his small pile.

“Hey, Phil?” Clint’s voice drifts in, after about thirty minutes. Phil removes his safety headwear and looks up to see Clint hovering nervously next to him.

“I’m done here.” Clint says, tugging at the hem of his shirt like he’s actually anxious. “And I was wondering if you’d like to go grab a beer?”

Phil swallows. It feels like the past decade of his life has been condensed into one month, but in reverse. He spent the first few days angry at Clint Barton, dissipating down to a light annoyance by mid-month, assisted by a string of nice coffee dates and pleasant dinners with Jasper Sitwell. And right now, they’d seemed to be at a bit of a truce, and now - was Clint Barton actually asking him out?

He thinks it’d be easy to say yes, let himself fall back into old habits, like the old habit of falling into Clint Barton. But, he’s in his mid-forties now, and his theatre company may be in the brink of failure, and he’s been single for years, and he hasn’t had sex in god-knows-how-long...so if nothing else, he can preserve his dignity.

“I’m sorry. I’m really busy here.” Phil says, knowing that it sounds like a tepid rejection as the words exit his mouth. He doesn’t owe Clint anything, he thinks, but he can help clarify the situation. “I mean, I’m just not really for -” he gestures uselessly between his body and Clint’s. He inhales a lungful of air, a little bit sawdusty and heavy, and then exhales with a sigh.

“It took me a really long time to get over you.” Phil admits. “It’s going to take me a little bit to even be friends again.” It’s almost a relief, telling Clint, letting the gorgeous man in front of him know that yeah, he’s still hurting.

Clint nods sadly, before his brilliant smile lights his face again. “So, you’re saying we can be friends again? Eventually?”

“I - “ Phil starts.

“No, don’t say anything else. This is all on me, I know. Just - just give me a chance, okay?” Clint says, and before Phil can answer, Clint is already gathering up his newly cut wooden legs and backing out of the scene shop.

“Thanks for letting me use your shop, Phil!” Clint yells, and he sounds happy and light as the door closes behind him.

“Yeah. Sure.” Phil mutters, to the empty warehouse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is a reference for the current theatre affiliations for the current cast(as well as the cast that will appear shortly). There are a lot more people around, of course, but this story is not about all of them.
> 
>  **Cirque du Asgard:**  
>  Administration and Design:  
> Loki Laufeyson - Founder, Artistic Director  
> Thor Odinson - Lighting Designer for Flight, lighting director for Cirque du Asgard.  
> Bruce Banner - Costume Designer for Flight. (freelance.)  
> Betty Ross - Head of Wardrobe, Flight
> 
> Cast:  
> Clint Barton - Co-creator of Flight, featured performer(Hawkeye).  
> Natasha Romanov - Co-creator of Flight, performer  
> Kate Bishop - Clint Barton’s understudy(Hawkeye), performer
> 
>  **Macbeth’s Shield:**  
>  Administration and Design:  
> Steve Rogers - Artistic Director  
> Phil Coulson - Managing Director and co-Artistic Director  
> Maria Hill - Director of Operations  
> Tony Stark - Scenic Designer, Twelfth Night (freelance)  
> Bruce Banner - Costume Designer, Twelfth Night (freelance)  
> Jasper Sitwell - Stage Manager (freelance)
> 
> Cast:  
> America Chavez - Lead Actress: Viola, Twelfth Night  
> David Alleyne - Actor: Sebastian, Twelfth Night
> 
>  **Unaffiliated:**  
>  Pepper Potts - Freelance production and stage manager, although generally found aligned with Tony Stark’s projects.  
> Tony Stark - Freelance scenic designer  
> Jasper Sitwell - Freelance stage manager  
> Bruce Banner - Freelance costume designer


	3. Chapter 3

Clint stops by Macbeth’s Shield when he’s free, which is most mornings, usually making sure to arrive unannounced. If he does give them a heads up, Phil tends to make himself scarce. And, if they don’t exactly fall into an easy and comfortable rhythm around each other, Clint doesn’t seem to notice, and Phil tries to tamp down his annoyance at Clint’s presence, telling himself that having an extremely competent carpenter around is worth the simmering low level anger that still likes to pit in his stomach. Phil lets Tony assign any available work to Clint, trying not to notice how efficient he really is, and mostly stays out of the way.

Most of the set goes up quicker than anticipated. Tony - for once - took note of the theatre’s inventory before submitting his final design, and many of the pieces from previous shows could be reused for this one. The budget, supplanted largely by Tony’s generosity, was devoted to the large custom steel scaffolding that Steve and Clint decided would hold the circus artist elements.

They’ve just finished their first day of steel-only work on a Monday without rehearsals, literal sparks flying all day as Tony and Phil start to complete their first large scaffold structure.

“Hey, wanna grab a beer?” Clint asks, sounding as casual as ever, leaning against the table saw with his arms crossed and shoulders loose. Phil hadn’t seen him earlier, which meant that he’s just stopped by. He looks clean, and Phil, in his soot stained work clothes and metal shavings in his hair, is quite conscious of the difference.

“I - er - I have a date.” Phil replies, grateful for the truthful excuse. “With Jasper.” he adds, pointlessly.

“Oh, all of us are going - Steve and Tony too. I didn’t mean -”

“I know you weren’t asking me out, Barton. But I still have a date.”

Clint ducks his head, and glares at the tip of his shoes, and Phil finds the fact that Clint actually looks sad quite disconcerting.

>

***

He is so fucked, Clint thinks. So absolutely, irrevocably, fucked.

He can’t explain why he keeps on going to the warehouse where Macbeth’s Shield lives. He’s impressed at Phil’s skill as a technical director, only finding out a week ago that it was actually Phil’s first time doing the job. He only has to go to two rehearsals a week to help the actors out with circus aerial work as he’d promised Steve, but he finds himself there almost every morning now, slipping into the shop to find Tony and help out with the set build. He can’t explain why he spends so much time cajoling Natasha to come by and help too, although he tells himself that it’s because she looks happy working with Steve Rogers, painting the large walls for the Twelfth Night set.

Well, that is a lie.

He knows exactly why he finds himself covered in sawdust and paint and steel shavings an hour before his call time at Cirque du Asgard, having to scramble to get to his dressing room on time. He is perfectly aware of why he’s been driving Betty Ross and the rest of the wardrobe department crazy with his paint covered arms that they have to scrub off before he appears on stage. He tells himself that it’s just Phil’s forgiveness that he’d like, some sort of abstracted absolution to be granted for his youthful errors. But, he’s had years to learn to be honest with himself, and it’s not just forgiveness that he wants.  
  
Now, he’s standing outside the warehouse, about to head in for a meeting he’s only just been alerted to a day ago. He’s holding a box of blueberry muffins from a bakery on the Upper West Side that Steve had offhandedly mentioned that Phil liked. A bakery on the Upper West Side, that was most certainly not located between the small apartment he shared with Natasha and the warehouse that contained the theatre company..

The mood is solemn as he steps in, the other requested attendees already gathered around the table. Maria, Steve and Phil are sitting with their lips pursed, and their silence seems to have rubbed off on the others. Tony Stark isn’t even talking, which is a portent of doom.

“Hey. I brought muffins.” Clint says, although only Tony reaches out for one.

“Let’s just get on with it.” Maria says, and her face looks pinched and anxious. “Steve, Phil and I have been discussing this over the past couple of days. Well, weeks and months, really, but it took some time to talk to everyone on the Board of Directors. We’ve made the final decision last night."

Clint looks around the table. Steve, Phil and Maria look like they haven't gotten any sleep.

"We have to cancel the show.” Steve says, his voice cracking.

“What?” Jasper says. “Why? It’s a good show.”

Steve sighs. “We’re disbanding. The entire company. We haven’t been financially solvent for three years now. We’ve cut costs wherever we can. Phil, Maria and I have been working at quarter pay, and we’ve all been doing odd jobs, just to keep this going. I've been doing overhire carpentry at NYU. Phil's been writing grants for other non-profits."

“I’m 40, and I have two roommates, and I have an early morning shift at the coffee shop below my apartment.” Maria says. “We are unsustainable.”

“We lost a grant we were depending on.” Phil winces as he says it, as if it were his fault alone. “But all that does is put us even more in debt. At this point, every day we remain in business is another day we plunge further into debt. I’m starting on the bankruptcy paperwork right after we finish this meeting.”

“Wait.” Tony interjects. “If it’s just money you need…”

“And then what, Tony?” Phil asks. “We have already been taking your money. You already give us free performance space. We’ll just need money again the next show, and the show after, and the one after that. You giving us money doesn’t fix the fact that our shows just simply aren’t resonating with audiences anymore.”

“Cirque du Asgard is offering grants to develop workshop productions -” Clint starts, realizing that he might actually be able to help his friends - and Phil - even though it might be a little late.

“We’re not working with Cirque.” Phil cuts him off sharply.

“Loki Laufeyson is a dick.” Tony Stark adds, nodding along with Phil’s scowl. Seeing Clint’s confused expression, he tries to explain. “He stole my tech. His technical director, Justin Hammer, is a slimy bastard. It happened after you left Stark Robotics Theatre, Clint - I didn’t want to make a fuss since you and Thor and Bruce all worked there.”

Clint blinks. It’s the first he’s ever heard of it, even though that did sound very much like Loki. He had history with Loki, a long, sordid and complicated history, but he had never heard of any of his friends speak ill of Loki before. But, Stark was also untouchable. This was certainly the first time he’s heard of Stark not suing the bejesus out of a competitor - and to protect his friends? But, the large moving stage that he used to perform on nightly in Las Vegas, the one that swivels and spins and rotates in all sorts of impossible ways - it had seemed a bit too grandiose and technically proficient to be Justin Hammer’s design. Bruce is nodding, so apparently Bruce had known too. Bruce had quit Cirque to go freelance five years ago - and he had to beg Bruce to design the costumes for Flight - the pieces fall into place in Clint’s head and he sits quietly, stunned. 

“What happens to ‘the show must go on’, guys?” Tony asks, a little bit of bluster returning to his voice.

In response, Phil slides a plain folder towards Tony. “The first page is a summary of our financials from the past five years.”

“Ah.” Tony says, and his silence tells Clint everything.  
  
“Nick Fury’s offered me a position with the performing arts center he runs - you remember him as our visiting director this summer? This is just a technicality now but, I even wrote an official resignation letter.” Maria explains, tossing an official looking piece of paper on the table. Clint watches as Steve and Phil nod glumly; she must already have told them.

“A city job, Maria?” Bruce asks, speaking up from the corner where he had been nervously perched. The Civic Arts Center that Nick Fury runs is beautiful and contemporary and well funded, but it caters to rich socialites and school groups most of all.

Maria smiles wryly. “A job with health insurance and benefits. Jasper, you’ll still get your full paycheck -the flat rate we contracted you for. Bruce, Tony, Clint...we are all so grateful for your generosity and hard work, but we’ve considered all alternatives, and we don’t see any way to continue.”

“I will not yield.” Clint mutters, tracing his finger over the letterhead on Maria’s resignation letter.

“What?”

“That’s what the name of the company comes from, right? Before my body, I throw my warlike shield. Lay on, Macduff, and damned be him that first cries, ‘Hold, enough!’” Clint quotes the lines from Macbeth from memory.

“You're not supposed to even quote the play in a theatre, Clint.” Steve sighs. “It’s not just avoiding saying the name.”

“Technically, this is a warehouse, and I doubt we could court more disaster than complete and utter financial insolvency. I didn’t know you liked Shakespeare.” Phil says, but the tone in his voice isn’t insulting. “I get the point, though. Perseverance, endurance, all that.”

“The Scottish King dies. That's his final speech.” Steve says. “Maybe we should have named ourselves after something in a comedy."

No one laughs at Steve’s attempted joke, and the table falls silent again.

Clint tries to pay attention as move out plans are discussed, but he finds his attention drawn to the neat furrow on Phil’s forehead, the way he frowns as he discusses the last days of the theatre company he’s built from the ground up. The blueberry muffins lie forgotten, and Clint realizes that he would do anything to be able to make Phil smile again.

Yep, he is definitely fucked.

 

***

The dinner is already tense, what with the dissolution of Macbeth’s Shield hanging over his head. For the first time in a month, Phil isn’t actually delighted to think that he won’t have any reason to see Clint Barton anymore. Across from him, Jasper quietly stabs his bowl of ravioli with a little more force than needed to consume pasta.

“I don’t think we should continue to see each other.” Jasper says, with a surprising amount of certainty..

“What?” Phil drops his fork into his fettucini. They hadn’t gone too far beyond hand holding and some awkward goodnight kissing, but he really believed that he was starting to genuinely like Jasper as more than a friend.

“I mean, we’ll probably work together again soon, and I love hanging out with you. But you’re just dating me to make Clint Barton jealous.” Jasper says, with an astute nod.

“Clint? No. No, of course not. I don’t care what he thinks.” Phil stammers, even as he internally admonishes himself for being so painfully obvious. Was it obvious to Clint too?

“It’s okay. I knew we were just having some fun, and I never expected anything more.” Jasper says, smiling gently. “So, friends?”

“Yeah. Yeah, friends. We’re cool.” Phil says, feeling a little more dejected than he’d expected. He was actually starting to quite like Jasper. Jasper was the sort of person he ought to date - professional, and calm, and competent. Clint was professional and calm and competent too, Phil supposes, when he’s not actively being a jerk.

Phil pays for their dinner anyway, and spends the rest of the night at the restaurant’s bar. He’s just a block away from the theatre warehouse; he can sleep there if he gets too drunk. Which he fully intends to do. Two hours later, Phil finally manages to replace his persistent thoughts of Clint Barton with a revolting bout of utter nausea and what he assumes is the first stage of alcohol poisoning.

It’s the morning sun that wakes Phil up, streaming in through the small windows of the prop loft. His stomach and his head hurt in parallel, and he’s aware that he probably looks like death. He groans as he glares at the loft’s ladder, surprised that he even bothered climbing up it the night before, even to get to the comfortable and not too ratty chaise lounge that he had spent the night on. He’s certain he looks a wreck, notices that his shirt’s cuffs are stained with either dried vomit or something worse, and he smells like a cellar of cheap wine.

A girlish giggle rings out in the warehouse, startling him out of his miserable haze. Of course, because why would anyone else be in the theatre at six in the morning?

He drags himself over to the railing of the prop loft and looks up. On the other side of the warehouse, a girl is tangled in a silky bundle of purple cloth, attached to the highest crossbeams in the space. As he watches, she lets go and begins to fall, spinning and tumbling in the air. She is halfway down, when he hears Natasha Romanov’s voice call “STOP!”

The girl comes to a pause approximately ten feet above the ground, grabbing on to the silk cloth.

“No, no, no. You’ll break every bone in your face if you do that. Clint, go up and show her again.” Natasha commands.

The girl untangles herself, climbing down the rest of the cloth gracefully. Phil watches as Clint easily ascends to the top, wrapping the rest of the purple silk around him as he goes.  
  
“Alright, Kate. Pay attention to the way I fold over on the third drop.” Clint says - and he falls.

Clint is good looking on the ground, but he is beautiful in the air, his limbs long and elegant. He falls the last five meters with nothing but the cloth wrapped around his ankles, plunging downward with his back arched, and Phil looks away, because he is certain that Clint is about to break his nose on the practice mats that don’t look all that soft, laid out on the hard concrete.

When he opens his eyes again, Clint is dangling by his ankles, his face three inches from the ground. He drops to the floor, easily untangling his feet. “Your turn, Katie-kate. This time, start about four feet higher, so even if you misjudge the length again, you won’t smash your face in.”

Phil slams his head against the loft’s railing, although the new throb of pain doesn’t exceed the headache that is already present. Of all the people to be in the theatre unexpectedly, why did it have to be Clint Barton?

 

***

“Phil?” Clint says, rushing over to the man that has just stumbled down from the prop loft that looks mostly like Phil. Well, sort of. He’d never seen Phil look quite that wrecked before. His shirt is partially and haphazardly tucked in and unbuttoned to the middle of his chest, his pants are rolled up and smell a little bit like sewer water, and he looks absolutely awful.

“Grmmmrgh.” Phil says, waving his attempted attentions away.

“Oh my god, Phil. What happened to you.”

“Just hungover. Why you here?” Phil grumbles, already shuffling in the opposite direction.

“The rehearsal spaces at Cirque were all occupied. Tony said it was okay if we came over for a couple hours to practice here, since - you know. Well, we thought it would be empty.” Clint explains, pointing in the direction of the purple silk hanging from a crossbeam, above a stack of large practice mats. “That is Kate, she’s my understudy. Natasha and I are teaching to do a new aerial trick. It's complicated.”

“Ergh.” Phil says, clapping his hand to his mouth.

“Alright, let’s get you to a toilet bowl.” Clint easily throws an arm around Phil and ushers him to the bathroom, which Phil hastily disappears into. On the other side of the door, he hears a groan, followed by gagging noises.

“Is he going to be alright?” Kate asks.

“Oh my god, you’re still in love with him.” Natasha declares, as perceptive and impolite as ever.

“He’ll be fine, Kate. Natasha, please shut up.”

Clint blames it on some newly revived caretaker instinct that he has apparently redeveloped over the last five minutes when he finds himself in the small costume shop, pulling out a pair of soft jeans and boxers in Phil’s size, a plain undershirt, and a soft red flannel shirt. As an afterthought, he adds a pair of socks, since Phil was barefoot.

He grabs Kate’s water bottle and heads back to the bathroom door.

“Phil?” he calls. “I brought you a change of clothes. From the costume shop.”

“Ughhhh.” is the response, but the door cracks open, and Phil’s hand flails in his direction. He neatly deposits the bundle of clothing into Phil’s waiting hands, and the door shuts in his face.

Ten minutes later, after the sound of running water and a little bit of swearing, Phil opens the door. He is dressed in the new clothing, and Clint can’t help thinking that he looks extraordinarily adorable like that, messy and unguarded and - well, still a little bit sick.

“Have some water.” Clint says. “I couldn’t find any aspirin.”

“Office. Have aspirin.” Phil mumbles, his hair still sticking up in several directions, and stumbles over to the arrangement of walls that he calls his office. He’s still holding the water bottle like it is the most important thing he’s ever seen and there is some colour in his face, even though the colour is a pale green, so Clint tries not to take it personally that Phil won’t meet his eyes. Phil shuts his office door behind him, even though the office doesn’t exactly have a ceiling and Clint can very clearly hear the “Erghhhhhh.” that emanates from the room.

Natasha sidles up on his right, and Kate flanks him on his left.

“You...really are still in love with him, aren’t you?” Natasha says, softly. “Because he looks like absolute shit right now, and you still have that weird devoted look in your eyes.”

“Oooooo, Hawkeye has a crush.” Kate mocks, not quite as gently. “You’re definitely never that nice to me when I’m hungover.”

Yeah, he’s fucked.

 

***

It is dark when Phil wakes up. He’s on the floor of his office, next to his trashcan, which fortunately, does not actually have any puke in it. He’d managed to actually get to the bathroom, then. There’s an ugly crochet blanket over him, that looks like the one from their production of Much Ado About Nothing two summers ago. He’s not actually on the floor either, he is lying on a pile of cushions that look like they came off an assortment of couches from the furniture pile. Phil looks down at himself, staring oddly at the flannel shirt and jeans that he definitely did not go to dinner last night in. He’s not sure where his shoes are. Phil flushes as his memory starts to slot itself into place.

Oh. Clint Barton. Well, that’s embarrassing, he’ll have to thank the man.

His stomach growls, and he grumbles as he pushes himself off the floor. Perhaps he can email Clint his thanks, since Clint is fond of communicating important things via email. Something gracious, but impersonal. He could have Maria and Steve send a fruit basket, perhaps - a “thanks for not letting our useless Managing Director drown in his own vomit” fruit basket. Probably not, the theatre can’t afford any fruit baskets.

He shoves open his door with all the force left in his arms(it sticks sometimes), letting it slam open. It is met by a loud yelp, and the sight of Clint Barton rolling out from behind the door, grabbing at his knees.

“Oh jeez. My fault. I should have sat on the other side.” Clint squeaks, although his assurances are a bit difficult to believe since he is still curled up on the floor.

“What time is it?” Phil blurts out, alternately aware that his breath tastes like stale cheese, and startled to see Clint there.

“Seven. In the evening.” Clint answers.

“What are you doing here?” Phil really is confused by Clint’s presence. “It’s Thursday night. Don’t you have a show?”

“I called in. Kate needs the live show practice anyway. Besides -” Clint gestures to his knees, limping slightly over to the mini refrigerator outside Steve’s office, “I might have to honestly call in, now that you’ve bashed your door into my knees.”

“Shit, I’m sorry.” Phil stammers, suddenly realizing that Clint is actually in pain, and not just being dramatic.

“No, no, it’s fine. Just. I’m just - “ Clint pulls out two ice packs from the small freezer compartment. “I’m just going to sit here for a while. I’m sure they’re just bruised.”

“Let me look,” Phil demands.

“You can’t.”

“Dude, the least you can let me do is check you out.”

Clint leers, although his eyes are still creased in pain. ”Well, that’s exactly the problem. You’re not actually interested in checking me out, and I can’t show you my knees without taking off my very tight jeans.”

Phil rolls his eyes. “Trust me, I’m sure I can manage to hold myself back as you take off your pants.”

Fortunately, Clint’s painful shimmy out of his pants is neither sexy nor inviting, and Phil is still feeling too terrible to notice even if it were. Clint winces as he pulls the tight denim past his knees, and as he kicks them off his socked feet. His socks are purple, which make Phil smile a little bit, despite himself. Just...a very tiny little bit.

“Well, they’re just bruised, I think.” Phil says, after looking at them. There is a small splotch of blue growing where they were hit by the wooden door, but Clint doesn’t seem to notice more than soreness, so Phil feels relieved that at least he didn’t manage to end Clint’s career in the stupidest way possible..

Clint flops over on the concrete floor, stretching out his legs. “I’m just - I’m just going to stay here for a while. I’m glad you are no longer that really weird shade of pale green.”

Phil wanders on over to the small kitchen setup that Maria assembled(it’s just a microwave, a coffee pot, and a water tower) and downs a glass of water, before brewing a pot of coffee. He waits by it as the coffee drips slowly, conscious that Clint is still splayed out on the floor.

Phil can’t help but soften a little, because Clint actually looks improbably pathetic and young, lying on the cold concrete floor in a white t-shirt and icepacks tied around his knees. His purple boxer briefs match his socks, ridiculously enough.

“Thanks. For getting me clean clothes. And water. This morning.” Phil can’t figure out why he’s communicating in extremely short phrases, but it probably has something to do with the light throbbing in his skull. He sits on the ground beside Clint, placing a cup of coffee down by his head. He feels a little bit tempted to pull the cushions out of his office - oh god, Clint must have done that in the morning - but stops himself.

He can be gracious, but he still isn’t really in the mood to be kind.

“It’s no problem.” Clint says, propping himself up on his elbows. “I’m sorry for dumping you via email and being a jackass and barging into your theatre uninvited.” His eyes are soft and desperate, and Phil feels something give a little inside his chest.

“Are you going to apologize to me every time you see me now?” Phil feels a small smile sneak onto his own face. He feels...pretty okay about this, actually. Perhaps they might be able to rebuild something slowly resembling a friendship. With time. With a lot of time.

“Will it ever be enough?” Clint says, his hand reaching out to touch Phil lightly on the knee.

Phil can feel the moment that his suddenly warm feelings about Clint plunge into hot anger instead. He’s aware of the way his body suddenly reacts to even the smallest touch from Clint, and he loathes the fact that he is apparently so easily manipulated. He is certain then that - no, the apologies will never be enough. He’d buried his hurt for a decade, because after the first couple of times, he really had become very good at putting his world back together. But now, Clint was trying to open a door into his life again, and there was simply no way in without disgorging the pent up anger on the front stoop.

“No!” Phil practically shouts, jerking away from the touch.

Clint sits up, startled. “I - what?”

“You can’t just waltz in, and flirt your way back into my life. You can’t just be nice to me once when I’m hungover and make jokes about apologizing to me and expect me to just fucking forget that the past ten years happened. Because they happened. And I’m not just going to forgive and forget it all just because you’re sitting here without your fucking pants on.” Phil says, aware that his voice is both shaky and furious.

Clint blinks at him.

“Hey.” Steve’s voice floats in from the other side of the warehouse. Tony is standing next to him, and they’re both smartly attired in neat suits.

Phil groans, sinking his head into his hands. He suddenly feels nauseous again. “What are you doing here, guys?”

“Clint texted me? He said he needed me to drive him to see a doctor?” Tony answers, a bit worriedly. He walks hesitantly towards Clint, his hands up in a purportedly calming manner, as if Phil were an escaped zoo lion. “Are you okay? We were just eating a few blocks away, so we came right over.”

Clint picks himself off the floor, turning in Tony’s direction. “Thanks, dude. I would have called Tasha or Kate, but they’re onstage. You’re the only person I know with a car in New York, and I really think that I should walk as little as possible.”

“It’s - you said it was just a bruise.” Phil stammers, and the words feel stupid coming out of his mouth. He hadn’t wanted to actually physically hurt Clint. Tear his heart out perhaps, sacrifice it to an angry god, but those actions fell firmly in the realm of emotional destruction.

When Clint turns back around, the soft look in his eyes is gone, replaced by a calm and steely swagger. “I’m a world class professional circus performer, Phil, and the star of my own show. When I’m “just bruised,” it affects the safety of two hundred performers, and the livelihoods of a full time technical crew of fifty people.”

Clint bends over, leaning over to whisper in Phil’s ear, his voice low and mocking. “But then, I suppose you wouldn’t know much about playing in the big leagues.”

It’s true, Phil does still have a headache, and he is still quite hungover, and still feeling absolutely miserable, but he’s also had twelve hours of sleep and a cup of coffee now, and he really fucking wants to punch Clint Barton.

So, he does. Ten years of pent up anger and bitterness, and one fist, and one gorgeous face.

It’s cathartic really, the way it sounds when his fist connects with Clint’s nose, topped with the sweet sound of Clint’s pained yelp. And then, Steve is standing behind him, his strong All-American arms braced around Phil’s shoulders, forcibly yanking him away from Clint, who is staring, shocked, his hands cupped around his presumably broken nose.

“Well, since we were going to the Urgent Care clinic anyway...” Tony tries to joke, but no one is laughing. Tony and Steve nod to each other, a silent agreement between the two men, and Tony efficiently ushers Clint out through the warehouse’s front door.

“Phil, come on.” Steve says, tugging him in the direction of the loading dock.

 

***

They sit on the loading dock silently, holding lukewarm mugs of coffee. It is not a particularly pleasant choice; the alley is dimly lit and smelly, and the view consists of two dumpsters and a fire escape.

Steve speaks first. “I’m sorry.”

“That’s funny. Everyone seems to be apologizing to me today.” Phil says, noticing that there a spot of blood on his knuckles that doesn’t belong to him.

“I don’t think that any of us knew that there was this much animosity between the two of you.” Steve admits. “We’ve all been so absorbed in our financial problems. I was stressed and worried about our theatre, and when Clint offered to help, I thought it might be good for us, as a company. I thought it would be good for the show. I didn’t think - well, you know.”

“I haven’t exactly been issuing memos about my emotional state. Especially about this.” Phil admits.

“No, but I should have been able to figure it out. I mean, Tony was there when this all went down ten years ago, right?”

“Yeah. But Pepper had broken up with him the week prior, so we were both too busy wallowing in our respective breakups to really pay attention to each other. And Pepper and Tony are friends now. Besides, I really am friends with most of my exes. Theatre in this city is so incestuous - if no one ever worked with their exes, we’d all be unemployed.”

“We are unemployed.” Steve points out.

“Do you remember when we started this company?” Phil asks. They’d been so young then, comparatively speaking. He’d been a stage manager for just a year and a half, still excited about the prospect of helping to entertain people for a living, still absolutely certain in his conviction that his theatre family were visionaries, and that together, they could build something grand.

“We were in Vermont, with Stark Robotics. It was my first month on the road with you. Stark was grumbling about losing his tech to Cirque, but he didn’t want to do anything because Bruce had just landed a really good gig with them.” Steve reminisces, and Phil easily conjures up the image of lush trees and dark lakes and the smell of campfire s'mores in his head.

“Clint was working with them too. He’d just joined their performance troupe. You don’t have to completely avoid mentioning him around me.”

“We were all drunk, sitting around a campfire by a lake, and you started screaming - fuck it, we can do better.” Steve laughs. “We were going to reinvent Shakespeare, like Cirque du Asgard reinvented the circus. We were so certain that we’d steer this ship to success.”

“We were blind and young and stupid. Everyone reinvents Shakespeare.” Phil says, not a little bit bitterly. “And - here we are, sitting on a shitty loading dock that Tony Stark owns, a couple days away from filing bankruptcy paperwork. Meanwhile, Cirque has permanent residencies in Los Angeles, Montreal, Las Vegas and now - New York.”

“Clint offered to help us pack up the space, but I’m going to get in touch with him tomorrow and tell him that we won’t need his help.” Steve says.

“You don’t have to do that.” Phil says, because they probably could use the extra help, and he doesn’t really feel all that angry at Clint anymore, now that the slow soreness in his knuckles have helped to relieve some of that burden for him.

Steve laughs, kicking his legs against the concrete of the loading dock. “No, I really do.”

They sit silently for a while longer. Phil sips at his coffee, as the events of the past twenty four hours start to sink in. Splitting up with Jasper. Getting obnoxiously drunk. Sleeping in the prop loft. Clint Barton, finding him clean clothes. Clint Barton, getting him cushions and a blanket, Clint Barton, apologizing - again - and Clint Barton, being a goddamn asshole. Clint Barton, always knowing exactly what to say to make Phil furious. Or happy, a small voice in his head provides, unhelpfully.

“Oh shit, Steve, I broke his nose.” Phil blurts out.

“Well, we don’t know that yet.” Steve tries to be diplomatic. “Well, yeah, you probably did break his nose. It’ll heal, though. I mean, you are a former Army Ranger with a mean right hook, and he is a performer who depends on his physical attributes for his livelihood. But I’m sure it’ll be okay.” Steve says, failing miserably at any semblance of diplomacy.

“Aurrrrgh.” Phil groans, burying his face in his coffee mug.


	4. Chapter 4

“Clint!” Kate calls, as he storms down the hall. She’s still dressed like a magpie, silver bits of glitter glistening in her hair. She’s been Hawkeye for two weeks(she was glorious), but Clint’s nose has finally healed enough to be within his makeup artist’s capabilities, and he’s back in the lead role. “Loki’s here. He’s waiting in your dressing room.”

“Fuck.” Clint swears, plucking at the feathers still glued in his hair.

“I’m sorry. I wanted to warn you earlier, but you were on stage.” Kate says, nervously. “I think - I think he’s going to fire me, Clint. Or you. But, I'd rather it be me than you."

“No, that's not why he's here. You’re great, Kate - really great.” Clint assures her, even though the uncertainty is already crawling up his windpipe, lodging in it like a spiked rock.

Clint steps in to his dressing room, plastering on as much bravado as he can muster. Loki is sitting on his dressing trunk, in a curious green and gold jacket with tux tails, looking like a cartoonish stereotype of villain. Funny, because in the cartoons, the villains don't win. Clint tries to repress the subconscious shudder, and he’s not quite certain that he manages.

“Your show’s doing well, little bird.” Loki says, tapping his long cane against the ground. “Look at you, all pretty and golden.”

Clint nods, suspicious. Compliments from Loki are never free.

“Except for this.” Loki tosses down a stack of newspaper articles. “ _Flight Fails to Fly with New Hawkeye_.” one reads. “ _Girl Hawkeye is a Spring Chicken_.” is another. “Two weeks, you were out. Do you want to know how many hundreds of thousands of dollars that cost me?” Loki says, his voice quiet and threatening.

Clint shakes his head, because Kate isn’t just a good replacement, she’s fantastic. “The reviews are wrong. Kate is perfect. She’s the only person I’ve ever found as good as I am.”

“She’s not Hawkeye.” Loki retorts. “They pay to see you, the Amazing Hawkeye.”

“She _is_ Hawkeye.” Clint argues, because she is.

"You seem to have forgotten our agreement." Loki makes a low humming noise, his eyes narrowed in practiced suspicion. “How many days off have you taken since you started working for me?”

“Two.” Clint responds. It’s a stupid question, Loki knows exactly how many days he’s taken off.

“None, actually. I sent you home once because you had food poisoning and I couldn’t have you throwing up on my stage. And now, suddenly...you call in sick? And you show up with a broken nose and you're out for two weeks. How did that happen, my clumsy bird?”

“I was in a bar fight. I told the stage manager. You should have seen the other guy.” Clint wrangles a smirk on to his face, but he knows exactly what Loki is implying. He can’t let his friends be dragged into this. He’s been working on keeping Phil from being complicit in this game for ten years, and he won’t stop now. It had seemed too good to be true, the freedom afforded him over the past few years. He'd begun to really believe that perhaps Loki did have his best interests in mind. “Barney’s dead, Loki. He’s been dead for years. You don’t have your bargaining chip anymore.”

“I still have an iron tight contract on you - your entire lifetime as a performer is mine, and my lawyers are the best. Have you forgotten our agreement so quickly? I made you famous, little bird. I dragged you out of that pit of a travelling Stark robot theatre, and I made you Hawkeye again. I made you a star."

“No. I’ve made it because I'm good and I work hard. Besides, I only joined Cirque because of Barney, asshole, and he’s quite dead now.”

“Why didn’t you quit when Barney died, then?” Loki sneers. “Oh, right. You fell in love with the spotlight. You liked the attention. You wanted to be a star. You wanted to be Hawkeye." Loki pronounces the word ‘Hawkeye’ like a playground taunt.

“What, haven't you heard of Stockholm Syndrome? No, I wanted to prove that I could do something. To make up for being a fuck up, for agreeing to join you in the first place when I was young and stupid. I needed to show that I could build something amazing. And I have.” Clint answers. Flight has been a resounding success, regardless of who plays Hawkeye, and he is proud of it. "Flight is my show. I built it, and it's amazing."

Loki cackles. "No, it's mine. That’s in the contract too. Are you getting the urge to run again, my little sparrow? My sources tell me that you’ve been hanging out with some new people. Or rather...old friends? Stark, is it?” Loki gets to the point and Clint cringes inside.

“You can’t touch Stark.” Clint knows that he has been careless, daring to reconnect with his old friends again, taking a chance and rejoining the little family he’d built for himself once. But Loki had left the production of Flight largely alone, and Clint had begun to believe that he really had some bargaining power with Cirque. That he was their star, an artist in his own right, instead of just another one in Loki’s collection of pawns. He’d pushed for the New York residency because it had seemed far enough away from Loki, who preferred the bright lights and artificiality of Las Vegas. Far enough away that he could merely follow the letter of his contract, daring to ignore the words that spelled exactly how Loki owned his soul. He still loved the work, after all. He loves the production he’s created, his collaboration with the kind of world class talent that Cirque drew in, the sheer freedom of being able to fly through the air in front of an adoring audience five times a week.

Loki giggles, a childish sound that is all the more eerie in its lilting tones. “I can, but it’s not Stark that I’m thinking of. I find the man amusing enough to keep around. I’m thinking of someone a little more special?” Loki reaches into his coat and pulls out a stack of black and white photographs. “He’s from your Stark Robotics days. I should have done my research...he would have been a much better bargaining chip than your loser of a brother. I thought he was just a passing fancy. You were just a boy, after all." Loki scatters the photographs across the dressing table.

The first photograph is of Phil, bent over a stage manager’s desk, lit gently by a light clipped to the table. His brow is furrowed in concentration, and he is intent and focused on the large binder lying in front of him. The second is of Phil standing outside what Clint assumes is his apartment, his arm raised to hail a cab. He is wearing rainboots and a peacoat and he looks ridiculously adorable, and Clint has to work hard to not smile, even knowing that Loki’s eyes are on him. The third picture is of Phil and Steve, sitting on the loading dock outside the warehouse that used to host their theatre company, beers set out beside them. Phil is laughing, his eyes twinkling as Steve appears to tell a story with large and elaborate gestures. There are more pictures, but Clint doesn’t need to look at all of them to understand exactly what Loki means.

“It won’t work, Loki. He hates me.” Clint says, trying to feel secure that at least that is a truth. "There is no relationship between us. There never will be."

“Oh, little bird. It's not _his_ feelings that matter. I couldn't care less how he feels about you.” Loki chuckles.

Loki stands up, walking towards Clint until they stand chest to chest. Loki’s breath is cold, and Clint tries to repress a subconscious shiver and fails. He stands, trying to hold his breath as Loki runs his steely eyes all over his costume's tight form. Finally, Loki reaches up, plucks a feather from the elaborate headdress woven into Clint’s hair.

He twirls the feather, menacingly. “How did Barney pass, again? A car accident, was it? Well. We certainly wouldn’t want any accidents to happen. New York subways are so... _crowded_ during rush hour.”

Even when Loki leaves, his iridescent coat trailing before him, the room is still cold.

Clint sinks down into his chair, resting his head on his small dressing table. He’d cry, if he didn’t feel so utterly dried up inside. Still, the obvious answer is the simplest. Loki’s clear, as is his contract. Which he didn’t read when he signed, of course. But he has since, and Loki’s right about the caliber of lawyers that he retains.

He is bound to Loki for the rest for his performance career. He doesn’t call in sick, he doesn’t take any vacations, he doesn’t rest any more than is necessary to perform, and everyone lives. He performs, and everyone remains safe. He works, remains in the spotlight and becomes Hawkeye five shows a week, and Phil remains perfectly intact and perfectly estranged. And with enough time, Loki will believe that he never cared for Phil at all.

Surprisingly, that thought hurts.

He leaps, when a rustle sounds from the large trunk that Loki was perched mockingly on, just a couple minutes ago. He gapes as the lid edges open and Natasha unfolds herself from inside its walls.

“What a slimy fucking bastard. I wish you’d trusted me enough to tell me,” Natasha says, stretching out her limbs like an annoyed cat. “Please, let me help you fix this.”

Clint would stare, but Natasha is prone to such things.

"Tasha - it's no use. Loki has me, he's always had me." Clint tries not to pace around the room, but fails. It was funny, Loki hadn’t even threatened Barney at first. To the contrary, he was actually offering safety, a chance for Barney to get out of the fix he was in at the time - and Barney was always finding something bad to get mixed up in. Clint was legitimately considering the offer, although he’d eventually decided not to because it would be too much time away from home, and too much time away from Phil. He had plans - graduate from college, return to Stark Robotics, perhaps get a small apartment with Phil once they decided to stop touring. It was going to be nice, Clint thinks, letting out a harsh chuckle at the thought. Then, the offer became a threat. Barney already had enough demons on his heels; Clint couldn’t bring himself to be another.

Natasha sits back on the trunk, her posture suddenly resembling Loki’s, haughty and imperious. He watches as a sly grin crawls over her face.

"Well, he made a mistake, then." Natasha says, crossing her legs like an empress.

"What's that?"

"Loki should know better. If you plan on being a villain, you should never hire a spy." Natasha grins, and she looks just as devious as Loki for a second. "Watch me, Clint. I'll topple this house of cards."

Clint can't do much but watch as Natasha dials a number on her phone, wincing as she activates the speakerphone and drops it in front of him.

"Pepper Potts." the precise and professional voice answers.

"Pepper. Hey, it's Tasha. I need to call in two favours."

"Of course. Anything, after you helped resolve that thing with Hammer - oh, that was quite a while ago, wasn't it?"

"I need to find out whether there was an autopsy for a Barney Barton. September 12th, six years ago, it was a car accident. Any related police report about his death as well."

"Barton? Is that Clint's brother?" Pepper asks, a curious note in her voice that Natasha mostly ignores.

"Yes. I also need the best contract lawyer you know. We have a contract that needs to be renegotiated."

"Of course. I know the best. I'll call you in the morning with some contacts."

"Thank you, Pepper." Natasha says, before hanging up quietly.

Clint doesn't ask how in the world Pepper might have contacts in the police department, as well as and the best legal counsel in the city, but Natasha anticipates the question.

"What? Don't all stage managers have extremely dubious ways of getting shit done?" Natasha says, which isn't really an answer at all, but Clint feels a little bit of hope flare in his heart.

 

***

It takes three weeks to move Macbeth’s Shield out of the warehouse, even with Tony’s assurances that they could stay as long as they wanted. Steve , Maria and Phil had all agreed to move out sooner rather than later, preferring to end their failed chapter as quickly as possible. 

Everyone comes by to lend a hand with the move - Thor comes by for a day of clearing out the prop loft and furniture pile, clearing out ugly chaise lounges and decorative arm chairs with ease. Natasha arranges to have all of their paint donated to a local women’s shelter, and sends in a picture of a colourful mural a week later. Bruce and Tony coordinate the costume and set inventory liquidation, and Phil has to admit that it feels good to see their scenic inventory distributed amongst the other independent theatres in New York. Their costume sale day is a resounding success, and the racks are empty at the end of the day.

“Well, if we could sell off our entire costume stock every month, we’d be financially solvent.” Maria says, and even Steve and Phil manage to chuckle.

Pepper’s gift to the soon to be defunct theatre company is a bankruptcy lawyer that owed her a favour, and Phil gladly hands over the painful documents. So, three weeks later, standing in an empty warehouse with a crate containing the remnants of his office by his feet, Phil is struck with two competing thoughts.

One, he is no longer the managing director of a theatre company. He’s just an unemployed forty five year old man, with nothing to his name worth talking about, besides a few good friends.

Two, he hasn’t seen Clint Barton for three weeks, and he hasn’t really thought about him that much either. Also, he hasn’t apologized for breaking Clint’s nose.

He shifts the thought aside when Pepper calls him.

“Phil. Hey, I need a favour. I need a fill-in for the production management class I’m teaching at the city college today. I’m doing a really important favour for Natasha and it really can’t wait. Can you teach it for me? I’ve already told them you’ll be there.”

“Er, tell them about how I helped run a theatre company into the ground?”

“Actually, yeah, that’d be a great case study. It’s as important to discuss failures as well as successes. Class 101B, Building 2. It’s right next to the performing arts center. 3pm. Please?“ Pepper has an amazing way of sounding commanding when she is merely asking. 

“Will do, Pep. You’re buying me a beer, though.”

“I’ll have Stark invest in a brewery on your behalf.” Pepper says, and Phil can hear the smile on the other end of the line.

***

“You have to tell him.” Natasha says, just as the phone starts ringing in their shared apartment. “He deserves to know.”

“What? How do you even know that’s him?” Clint says, letting the phone go to voicemail. “He doesn’t even have my number.”

It is Phil after all, because Natasha’s sixth sense is finely honed in all the ways that will best embarrass him.

“Hi. Um, this is Phil. I just wanted to apologize. For breaking your nose.” Phil says, at the sound of the beep. “Um. That’s all. I hope you are...well." His voice is both nervous and impersonal.

“Tell him, Clint.” Natasha urges, grabbing the phone off the hook and tossing it at Clint before he can leave the room in a panic.

“I left you because of someone else." Clint blurts, clutching on to the phone receiver.

“What?” Phil’s voice sounds confused, which he ought to be.

“A ten thousand dollar signing bonus, an exclusive performance contract with Cirque, and someone else. That’s what you wanted to really know, right? Why I left you?” It’s not the full story, but it is enough of it. Enough of it for now. The last thing that Clint wants is pity, and the last person he wants it from is dignified, responsible, perfect Phil Coulson.

“You left me for someone else?” Phil asks, his voice soft and tired and sad.

“Yes.” Clint answers, a lump in his throat. That is technically accurate, even if Natasha is glaring at him angrily.

“Was it someone you met on the road?” Phil says.

“No. It was someone I’d known my entire life.” Clint says, and he promptly hangs up before Phil can say anything else.

“That was not as clear as it could have been.” Natasha says, scowling at him. “You made it sound like you cheated on him with your childhood sweetheart.”

“You’re my childhood sweetheart. He already knows about you.” Clint grumbles, but Natasha is already heading out the door, saying something about having to meet Pepper.

The phone rings again; he ignores it.

***

The students are already sitting in the classroom by the time Phil arrives, about a minute late. They look impossibly young, which they are, Phil thinks. It’s been a very long time since he was last in a classroom.

“Hi, everyone. My name is Phil Coulson, and I’m a friend of Pepper’s. Until recently, I ran Macbeth’s Shield, a theatre company devoted to contemporary adaptations of Shakespeare.”

“We know Macbeth’s Shield, Professor!” A small woman in an obnoxiously pink dress pipes up. “Pepper had us go to the production of King Lear last year.”

“It was really great. I’m not super into Shakespeare, but I enjoyed it a lot.” A blond boy with an excitable grin chimes in.

“Pepper told us about what happened. We’re really sorry.” Another voice adds, and all of a sudden Phil thinks that yeah - he can totally do this. He can teach. He can talk about his failed theatre company. He can hold court in front of a classroom full of eager, excited students, and even if they were neither eager nor excited, he could still do this.

“It’s alright.” Phil finds himself saying. “We can all learn from my failures. Okay, let’s talk about what went wrong with Macbeth’s Shield.”

An hour later, after having dissected the relevance of Shakespeare to contemporary audiences, the difficulty of running an independent theatre in New York’s already crowded theatre scene, and the many and varied issues of theatre accounting, a bell rings, and the students leave, chattering excitedly.

A tall man with grey in his hair walks up as Phil gets his things together. “Mr. Coulson. I’m Reed Richards, I'm head of the Theatre department."

“Please, it’s just Phil.” Phil says.

“It’s Reed, then. Pepper told me about you, so I sat in in your class. You are very good at this. She said you have an MFA?” Reed Richards is an imposing man, but there is a genuine kindness about him.

“An MA, actually. And it’s in history, not Theatre.”

“That’s not actually a problem. Actually, we’re looking to fill an adjunct lecturer position for two classes next semester - company management, and nonprofit management? You came highly recommended by Pepper in both regards. We start interviewing next week, but I have a feeling that you are exactly the kind of person we’d need.”

“I would love to apply for the position, Reed.” Phil manages to say, amazed at the sudden upturn in his fortunes. Pepper had also lined up a series of freelance stage management gigs for him(she said she was too busy to take all the jobs she was offered, and Phil also knew that to be true, but it was the gesture of confidence in his work that really mattered.)

“I’ll have my assistant get you all the application requirements.” Reed Richards says, and Phil walks out of the city college with a small stack of paperwork and in a fantastic mood.

His mood lasts until he’s made it back to his apartment. Then, it gets better. He knows it’s childish when he pulls out the shoebox from his closet from where it has been hidden away since his last move, and he knows it’s silly when he starts his fireplace, because it is late spring, and hardly cold.

But, he is smiling when he tosses the first photograph in the fire, and by the time it is followed by the first Stark Robotics tour shirt, and the letter Clint had written the first week they were separated, Phil is laughing with relief. The letter is ridden with misspellings and some awkward grammatical constructions, he knows, but he doesn’t read it again. He doesn’t need to - he knows what it says, and none of it turned out to be true.

He has to dig up the production binder for Twelfth Night to find Clint’s number again, but his hands do not shake when he dials it.

“Hey, Clint?” Phil says, the moment the phone picks up.

“Phil?”

“I just wanted you to know that I’ve gotten to do a lot of thinking since we last talked, and I’m no longer angry at you. It was cathartic, knowing why you left me, and I feel like I can really let the past go now.”

“I’m so sorry about everything, Phil, and I know that -”

“It’s okay. I’m not going to punch you in the face again, and I'm very sorry I did that.” Phil jokes, because he can afford to now.

“It healed. Actually, it's a tiny bit crooked. Kate says it's cute." Clint tries to sound careless and light, but Phil can clearly hear the tension in his voice. "So um - I guess I’ll see you around?”

“Yeah. I’ll let Pepper and Steve know that they can invite us both to the same things now.” Phil says, and the graciousness flows easily now, the way he never thought it would.

“Yeah. Yeah, that’d be great.” Clint says, although he sounds subdued and sad. “I’ll see you soon then. I hope.”

After he hangs up, Phil goes to his barely stocked fridge and pulls out a celebratory beer. Which he drinks alone, on his ratty couch, in his tiny studio apartment - and he feels perfectly fine about it. He is Phil Coulson, and he is a freelance stage manager in New York City, and his theatre company has just declared bankruptcy, and his rent is two months past due, and everything is okay. Because for the first time in over a decade, Phil thinks, he is not in love with Clint Barton.


	5. Chapter 5

“Your contract is pretty much airtight, and we have no proof that Loki murdered Barney Barton.” Natasha says, looking dejected. Across from her, Pepper Potts toys aimlessly with the cardboard sleeve from her coffee cup.

“Which could just mean that Loki is really good at covering up his tracks.” Clint says. He wanted answers, and he’s getting them, and as always, they are more opaque than he’d prefer.

The women sharing the table with Clint fidget and give each other meaningful looks. Clint isn’t exceptionally good at picking up clues, but he’s also pretty sure that they aren’t trying to sleep with each other, which means the meaningful looks are probably about him. He’s about to embarrass himself with a crude joke when fortunately, Pepper begins to talk.

“We have an alternate theory. Loki is in debt, and is far less connected that everyone thinks he is.” Pepper explains. “He has enemies, many of them - but, he’s maintained his illusions well. His true skill is probably in picking the right people to threaten and intimidate - Natasha’s contract is a perfectly normal one, as are the contracts of the majority of people under his employ. Kate’s contract is normal. They can all quit at any time. There’s just a few of you under these ridiculously stringent contracts - Ayla Prentiss in the Los Angeles show. John and Mary Grayson from one of the Las Vegas shows.”

“Flight is doing well, but attendance is down in Los Angeles, and the Las Vegas shows have only been breaking even the past few years.” Natasha continues. “Loki needs you, and he needs to hold on to you, and he’s getting really desperate.”

“What are you trying to say?” Clint asks, a little bit annoyed. “Do you have a plan to get me out of this, or not?”

The meaningful looks occur again and Clint tries to prevent himself from sighing.

“Barney was probably killed in a tragic car accident, not by some dastardly scheme of Loki’s.” Pepper says, finally. She slides a folder over to him, but Clint doesn’t need to see any evidence with his own eyes, if he has Pepper’s research acumen in its stead.

And she’s just told him that Loki didn’t kill Barney.

Clint’s face turns pale. “Well, fuck this, then.” he says. “I’m going to tell Kate that she is Hawkeye, if she wants the job. I’m quitting.” Clint can’t stand up quickly enough from the table. He nearly spills his coffee, but Pepper catches it, an exasperated look on her face as she mumbles something about hot headed impulsive circus boys.

“Wait - wait, Clint, seriously - wait.” Natasha calls after him, and there is something pinched enough in her face to make him stop and return to their small patio table, where Pepper is already pulling out several more sheaves of paper that he won’t be bothering to look at.

“Tony hired private investigators to tail Phil, Steve, Natasha and Tony.” Pepper says.

“And?” Clint sighs. Of course there are complications. Of course.

“Well, Natasha lost hers immediately, but two of the others reported suspicious activity - Phil and Tony are both being watched, Clint - and it’s probably Loki’s doing.”

“So I can’t quit, or my friends get hurt?” Clint exhales, trying to remind himself to breathe. So the situation actually is as bad as he initially thought.

“I do have a plan, though.” Pepper says. “We can get Loki out of the country. He isn’t an American citizen, and can be deported for a felony offense. Like killing Barney Barton.”

“Yeah, that we can’t prove, and that we don’t even think happened, even if there isn’t a statute of limitations on murder. He might not be as dangerous as Clint initially thought, but he is sneaky, and he’s desperate, and that doesn’t bode well for anyone. Anyway, I have a plan too, but Pepper doesn’t like it.” Natasha adds her opinion, which isn’t contributing to Clint’s eventual goal of not being Loki’s thrall.

“Well, lots of things are felony offenses. I’m sure we can dig up some dirt. OSHA might have some opinions of unsafe working conditions too.” Pepper deflects. “Your plan is awful.”

“We just passed an OSHA inspection with flying colours. And he’ll just squirm away. We can’t trap him like that.” Natasha complains.

“What’s your plan, Tash?” Clint asks.

Natasha shrugs. “Your contract is pretty much airtight, but there is one tiny loophole. You’re bound to Loki for the duration of your performing career, for as long as you can perform. So, we could just end your performing career.”

Clint swallows. Somehow, he could have expected Natasha to come up with that plan. “Like, you want to take a tire iron to my kneecaps?”

“We cannot take a tire iron to Clint’s kneecaps. Please.” Pepper groans, like she’s heard this plan before.

“He’ll be perfectly functional. He just won’t be much use to Cirque anymore. You wanted another job anyway, right? You could teach archery, or work in a scene shop again.”

“That still doesn’t really solve the problem of Loki potentially harming my friends. Which includes the two of you, by the way.” Clint points out. If nothing else, it would just serve to piss Loki off further.

“We could combine our plans.” Pepper says.

“So, you’re warming up to the tire iron idea?” Natasha says.

“No, I’m really not.” Pepper sighs.

“No one’s taking a tire iron to my kneecaps, Tash.” Clint says, a suddenly mischievous grin appearing in his eyes. “Pepper, I want to talk about Loki’s empire more. I have a plan, and it’s better than both of yours. If I’m going to quit, I’m going to bring him and everything he owns down with me.” Clint smiles, calmly, despite the fact that his heart is beating with excitement. He knows exactly how to win.

“And what do you plan to do?” Natasha asks. Worried, as she should be.

“I plan on learning the grandest trick of my entire career.” Clint pushes himself away from the table, an indecipherable smile on his face.

“Where are you going?” Pepper asks.

“To see Bruce. I have to borrow a suit for the Stark gala tonight. If I’m going to go through with this hairbrained and probably life threateningly dangerous plan, I need to know what I’m doing it for.”

Natasha is as annoyingly perceptive as always. “You mean, _who_ you’re doing it for?” she yells, even as Clint is already jogging down the sidewalk, away from the coffee shop. Pepper elbows Natasha hard; to her credit, Natasha does not twitch.

***

The gala fundraiser for the Maria Stark Foundation is large. Phil stays close to Maria Hill, who is elegant and taller than him in a backless grey dress and stiletto heels that could kill a man, either via impact or heart attack. He catches Clint out of the corner of his eye, talking to an excited Bruce Banner who is also set on straightening out Clint’s tie, but looks away when he predicts that Clint’s eyes might turn in his direction. Maria is asked to dance, after Phil changes his body language to something other than “browbeaten but oddly possessive husband,” and he finds his way up to the upper balcony of the hall.

He watches the crowd below for a while, admiring the way that Steve seems to mingle, confident and straight-backed like the old Army captain he used to be. A waiter comes by, and he picks up something that looks like a shrimp on a cracker, suddenly realizing that he hasn’t eaten dinner, and is still hungry. He has shifted his attention to trying to read Pepper Potts’ lips, who is whispering urgently at Tony, when a familiar shape appears beside him. Clint Barton, in a very nice grey suit(purple shirt, light grey tie with a subtle pattern, and a simple silver bar of a tie pin), and a surprisingly uncertain look on his face.

“I didn’t know you were going to be here.” Phil says, although he can’t help but be secretly pleased that he is. He’s pretty proud of himself, the way he can look at Clint now, and not see the floppy haired boy he fell in love with when he was thirty four. Clint is different now, and now that he is no longer looking at him through a haze of either fury or infatuation, he’s perfectly willing to admit that the man cuts a very nice figure in a suit. “I like your suit.”

“It was a last minute decision.” Clint answers, glancing down at himself as if he weren’t entirely certain of what he was wearing. “Um. Bruce picked the suit. He sort of...dresses me for fancy events. I don’t actually own a suit.“

“I remember.” Phil says, holding back the grin. It had been one of Clint’s more endearing qualities - his dependence on Bruce Banner for formal wear that he’s had since he was in college. Bruce had taken it in stride, obviously able to tailor Clint within an inch of his life(and within significant time constraints).

“Are you here with someone?” Phil asks, out of sheer curiosity, although he’ll admit to himself that it wasn’t really a question he needed to ask. But, there is a lightness in his chest, and a sudden wash of confidence, and he likes the suit he’s wearing himself, knows he looks quite good in it - so he asks.

“Yes. I mean, no, not with someone. I arrived with someone. But not like that.” Clint stammers.

Phil tries not to look like he’s trying to swallow down his sudden good bout of humour, because Clint is actually quite sweet when he’s nervous.

“Kate Bishop. My understudy. I arrived here with Kate. She’s my designated driver. We’re not together or anything. She’s like nine. And spoiled rotten.” Clint manages to explain, with more awkwardness than Phil is used to seeing.

“I wasn’t going to imply that you were dating your nineteen year old understudy.”

“Goodness knows I’ve made worse dating choices.” Clint sighs, turning around to slump against the railing, his head angling up to fixate on the elegantly gilded ceiling.

“I know that too.” Phil says, and he is proud of himself for only sounding a little bit snarky.

“Phil - I’m sorry. I was a dumbass. I’m really - “ Clint starts.

“Stop.” Phil says. “Stop apologizing to me. I’m over it. I’ve gotten past our history. Really. I’d rather just...start over, okay?”

“Okay.” Clint says.

“Okay.” Phil responds.

They stand together silently for a few beats, letting the already stilted conversation lapse into nothing. Phil tries not to feel awkward, and tries to lean casually over the balcony instead, and tracks Natasha across the dance floor. She is wearing a gold dress, and looks a bit like an Academy Award, dancing elegantly with Steve, who is in turn, surprisingly adept at the waltz.

Clint clear his throat, and Phil turns towards him, ready to wish him a good evening. Well, as far as meetings with Clint Barton went, this still ranked amongst the most cordial in recent memory.  
  
“Hey.” Clint extends his hand. “I’m Clint Barton. I - uh, I work with Cirque du Asgard, and we have mutual friends.”

Phil can’t help but smile. “I’m Phil Coulson. I teach at the city college. We do have mutual friends. Quite a few of them.”

“It’s good to meet you.” Clint smiles a surprisingly quiet smile. “I was about to get myself a new drink. Can I get you one?”

“No thanks.” Phil says, and is suddenly aware of how tragic disappointment looks on Clint’s face. It only takes a second for him to change his mind. “But I’ll go with you to the bar.” he continues, and if he finds himself happy at the way Clint’s face lights up with joy, he tries not to pay too much attention to the thought.

***

Phil orders a cheap whiskey with ginger ale, and Clint tries to pay for the drink before the bartender points out that it’s an open bar. Clint ends up flustered and forgets his usual drink order and ends up holding a cosmopolitan, which is very pink and purportedly for Natasha. Except, of course, Natasha is nowhere to be found, so he sips at the drink, grateful that it contains a suspiciously high level of vodka.

“Don’t worry. If I had known it was an open bar, I would have ordered better whiskey.” Phil’s voice is calm and reassuring and Clint wishes that he’d trusted it enough to depend on it back when he was much younger, and far more foolish. It is Phil’s arm that steers him back through the crowd, weaving past gorgeous women in sparkling dresses and handsome men in suits that they certainly didn’t beg their costume designer friend to scrounge up for them two hours before a gala event.

They are outside, the night air cold on their faces when Clint realizes that Phil’s hand had been on his lower back, gentle but insistent. It’s gone now, both of Phil’s hands curled around his drink. He has an amused look on his face.

“You looked like you were having trouble with the crowd.” Phil says

“I don’t have trouble with crowds.” Clint returns, because he doesn’t. He does crowds for a living. He knows how to schmooze a crowd, how to be charming and talkative. He knows how to be a star. But Phil - Phil always brings out the graceless kid in him, always has. He racks his brain desperately, trying to think of a casual point of conversation, something that doesn’t trigger any memory of their history together. “So, you teach at the college now?”

Phil smiles. “Company management. Pepper got me the gig, pretty much. It’s just an adjunct lecturer position, but they’d like me to teach a non profit management class next semester as well. It’s not a lot of money, but I’m making do.”

“You were always a good teacher.” Clint says, and inwardly curses his lapse into sentimentality.

“Thanks. I’m stage managing again too. It’s a small show out in the East Village, but Pepper recommended me for some Off-Broadway work...so, we’ll see.”

“That’s great. I’m really happy that things are looking good.”

“How are things at Cirque?”

Clint swallows. He’s never really been able to lie to Phil - not like this. He’s spent a lot of time avoiding Phil, just so he wouldn’t actually lie to him. Quite a lot of time. “Fine.” Clint says. “It’s fine.”

“You...don’t look like you believe that.” Phil says, looking concerned. Clint would give a lot to believe that the concern is genuine, that Phil might actually care again. He downs his pink drink with a flourish, summoning up his false bravado to the surface.

“Did you have plans tonight?” Clint asks, edging a bit of swagger back into his voice. This is the role he knows how to play the best, the cocky, confident flirt. He’s a performer, an actor - he can pretend that the man he is talking to is not Phil Coulson, his ex-boyfriend and the love of his life - but just Phil, a pleasant adjunct professor at the city college who looks good in a suit.

Phil frowns, his eyes narrowing as if he’s contemplating something far more serious than the question would imply(but of course, it is a very serious question, even couched in light words and jokey eyebrow raises). Clint’s heart clenches. He can handle rejection, even from Phil. He’s been handling it a lot lately, what’s another “no” after a broken nose and cruel words and those painful and heartbreaking angry looks in his direction, after all?

And then, Phil smiles, and Clint isn’t sure what to think anymore.

“I wouldn’t mind catching up with an old friend.” Phil says, and Clint holds his breath. “Do you want to get out of here?”

***

They’re standing in the cab line outside when Kate Bishop steps between them, waving a valet ticket in the direction of a parking attendant.

“I’ll be faster than the cab line.”

“Kate, you don’t have to -” Clint starts, and Phil can’t help but grin because Kate is so obviously set on cockblocking Clint tonight. Not that he was intending on proving that he was definitely over Clint with a night of meaningless sex. Of course he wouldn’t do that.

“I said I’d be your designated driver.” Kate says, insistently. “So, I’m going to drive you.”

“Kate. It’s not necessary.” Clint complains, granting Kate an eyeroll that one could write epic poems about.

“Clint. Pepper and Natasha filled me in. It will be safer if I drive.”

“What?” Clint says, and Phil can only follow as Kate ushers them both into the small purple Volkswagen Beetle that has pulled up at the curb. Clint crawls into the back seat, and Phil takes the front, which has more legroom than he would have anticipated.

He cranes his neck backward, to look at Clint, who looks both startled and squished. “Are you in trouble?” Phil asks. Next to him, Kate lets out an amused huff of breath. “He’s always in trouble. Clint Barton lives his life in a perpetual state of trouble.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” Phil asks.

“No, not really.” Clint sighs, straightening up and bumping his head against the roof of Kate’s tiny car as it proceeds over a speed bump with very little elegance.. “This was not how I expected the night to go. Kate, what are you doing?”

“Losing your tail, duh.”

“I had a tail? Wait, why do you know how to evade a tail?” Clint yelps, as the tiny car swerves past a large truck that is has absolutely no business swerving around.

“You know that I’m a rich heiress with extremely little parental supervision, right? I’m like Batman, but prettier and funnier.” Kate says, whipping her car into a sudden right turn, before disappearing down an alley.

“Wait, why do you have a tail? And how were you expecting the night to go?” Phil asks.

“I was expecting to take you to a diner near my apartment and catch up?” Clint says, ignoring the first question.

Phil grins, a bit amused, in spite of the fact that he might be in a potentially dangerous situation. Oddly, he’s feeling pretty excited about that. “Why a diner near your apartment, specifically?” he prods.

“Um.” Clint says, and Phil can see in the rear view mirror that Clint is blushing a bright red, visible even in the dark car.  
  
Kate coughs a cough that sounds suspiciously like the words “bootycall,” and Clint sinks into the backseat and stares pointedly out the window.

“Um.” Clint says, as ineloquent as thirty seconds ago.

Phil laughs, a genuine one that actually rattles his lungs a little bit. “Were you trying to seduce me?” he gasps, still shaking in laughter, because he knows Clint’s confident flirting, knows the way he swaggers his way into a heart, knows the way he can charm anyone while barely batting an eyelash, although batting his eyelashes is definitely in his box of tricks. But this - this unsure, fidgety Clint - this is new.

Clint tries to disappear into Kate’s upholstery. “You don’t have to make fun of me.” he chokes out.

Phil actually turns around then, notices the sad slump of Clint’s shoulders that isn’t brought on by just the confined space. And he suddenly understands. He gets it. This is the real Clint, unvarnished and unmasked, that rarely anyone gets to see anymore, buried under the layers of swaggering bravado. This is just Clint, the person he used to know, a bit afraid and a bit unsure and quite a lot hurt. It’s just Clint, desperately open. Something in him breaks a little bit further, gets past the wall he’d erected for himself, the defensive wall that was built to keep in a decade of anger about Clint Barton, but already slowly eroded by a bit of honesty and a bit of misplaced physical aggression and a bit of self confidence. It’s not just forgiveness anymore, not with Clint biting his bottom lip and refusing to meet his eyes.

Phil doesn’t just want to be kind, he wants to care. Like he always has, really.

“Hey Kate?” Phil says. “Can you head towards the East Village?”

“Sure thing, what’s over there?”

“A diner. Near _my_ apartment.” Phil says, and smiles at the tiny surprised squeak that emerges from the backseat.


	6. Chapter 6

It’s a normal morning when Phil wakes up, except that he had apparently gone to bed with all his clothes on, and Clint Barton is spread out snoring on his couch. He rubs his eyes. They had gone to a diner the night earlier, and had slightly drunken and surprisingly pleasant, if not particularly deep, conversation. Clint talked about Kate, mostly, who he clearly held in high regard. Phil had talked about his new students.

Oh yes. His students, whom he would be late to teach a special Saturday workshop for if he did not get out of the door in ten minutes. He leaves Clint a note, taped to the bathroom door - “Gone to work. Stay as long as you need.”

He does not dwell on how Clint’s soft hair falls over his face and makes him look ten years younger, because he is not in love with Clint Barton. He does not look at how Clint’s shirt rides up his belly, exposing a small trail of downy fuzz that disappear down his pants, because he is not in love with Clint Barton.

He does not think about Clint Barton at all, walking past the posters for Flight on the subway, because he has things to focus on, like his syllabus, and the two students that he will be recommending for volunteer positions at the Civic Arts Plaza, where Maria works.

But when he does think about Clint Barton, halfway through his return commute, the thought comes unbidden, and it makes him smile.

The rain starts pouring as he makes his way from the subway station to his apartment, and he has a small hope that perhaps Clint might still be there. Perhaps they could order a pizza. He turns his key in his doorknob, and is greeted with a blast from an airhorn, raucous laughter, and something that sounded like Tony Stark’s shrieking.

“What is this?” Phil yelped, spinning around to see Maria waving a pom-pom in his face.

“A surprise birthday party. Well, sort of. This is the surprise part, we’re going to move the party to happy hour at the bar downstairs because you live in a tiny studio apartment.” Maria said.

Phil looked around. Pepper, Maria, Steve, Tony, Bruce, Thor, Natasha, and...Kate Bishop, who waved sheepishly at him.

“Er, Barton couldn’t make it?” he asked Kate.

“We didn’t invite him.” Maria said.

“You - him - er. You know.” Steve supplied, not very helpfully.

“We’re fine now. I even had dinner with him last night.” Phil said. “Kate, call him and tell him to come over. I’m just going to wash my face and I’ll be right down, okay?”

The merry gang make their way out of his apartment, and Phil sighs a loud sigh as he plods over to his bathroom. Where he is met by Clint Barton’s face, pressed up against the glass of his bathroom window, a cold finger tapping against the glass.

“Clint?” Phil squeaked, immediately going to open the window(closed, but not latched). Clint’s teeth chattered as he ducked into the window, his wet clothes dripping on the tile.

“Jesus, you’re freezing. What the hell were you doing on my fire escape?” Phil asked, because he’s a hundred percent certain that that was not where he left Clint this morning.

“I never left from this morning. I slept in, and I had a bagel and some milk, I’m-sorry-I’ll-replace-it. I didn’t have anything to do today, and Tasha and I don’t have a TV and you said I could stay - ”

“What? No, don’t replace the stupid bagel. And yes, I said you could stay, and I’m happy you did.  But that doesn't explain why you locked yourself out on my fire escape.”

“I should just have made my way down. It’s a brick building, it has plenty of handholds. Actually, I can do that now. Wait, no, I can use your front door.” Clint started to head out of the bathroom, as Phil firmly planted himself in the way. “No, you’re right, I’ll get the floor wet, I’ll take the window.”

“Clint. Stop. Stay right where you are. Take off your clothes.” Phil demanded, sliding out of the bathroom, but not closing the door.

“What?”

“You’re wet. From sitting out on my fire escape.” Phil explained, although he suspected that Clint isn’t really processing perfectly clear explanations today.

When he returned, a bundle of dry clothing in his hand, Clint is sitting on the edge of the bathtub. He’s removed his shirt, and he has his arms wrapped around himself. “I heard Steve and Maria and the rest outside and I panicked and leapt out the window.” Clint said.

“Yeah, they both have keys to my place. But they’re your friends too. You could have just explained to them why you were here.” Phil pointed out, because he is apparently dealing with a damp, messy haired, child of a man who has spent an hour crouching out on his fire escape in the rain.

Clint shifts nervously and opens his mouth to respond, but no noise comes out. He ducks his head, and focuses his eyes firmly on his own feet, but he takes the dry clothing from Phil, and starts to undress as Phil leaves the bathroom, lightly closing the door.

Clint steps out of the bathroom, barefoot. The jeans that Phil scrounged up are a bit tight on him, and the grey long sleeved shirt is a bit loose, hanging off his slumped shoulders.

“These aren’t your clothes.” Clint says. “I’m a couple sizes larger than you.”

“Ex boyfriend clothes. I mean, they were left by an ex-boyfriend, not clothes I keep around for ex boyfriends to wear.” Phil’s joke is lame but Clint smiles a little bit, so he’s okay with being a little bit lame.

“They don’t think I’m good enough for you.” Clint said, hovering near the edge of the couch. his right hand rubbing up and down his left elbow like a nervous tic.

“What?”

“They’re right. I’m not. That’s why I ended up on your fire escape. I was afraid they’d find out I was here.” Clint said, morosely.

“I’m just not sure where you got the idea that - “ Phil starts, because hadn’t all his friends been singing Clint’s praises since he arrived back in town?

“Well, Steve said I should leave you alone, because I was causing you undue distress. Maria said I should leave you alone, because you were really busy with work and didn’t have time for distractions, which is just her polite way of telling me to fuck off. Pepper spent thirty minutes steering me away from you at the Stark Gala, which says a lot more than her words do. Natasha is usually on my side, but I sort of poured my heart out in her direction after you punched me in the face, and she said that she didn’t blame you for being pissed at me. And Bruce - he’s really nice, you know? Which is why he was the one sent to let me know that I wasn’t invited to your birthday thing, and it wasn’t personal, but they just didn’t want me to hurt you again.”

“Oh.” Phil said. He won’t understand for a while - what the subtle politics of friendship mean in this particular instance, or the complications invoked by attempted impartiality in the Friend DMZ. But he does understand the slump of the broad shoulders in front of him and the defeat in Clint’s voice.

“I know I’ve fucked up, okay?” Clint continued, his voice reedy and strained. “I get it. I made a really fucking dumb mistake over ten years ago and I’m trying to fix it, but it’s not easy, or straightforward, and I could fuck up a lot of things even more and - “

“You’re - not really still talking about me, are you?” Phil ventures.

“I didn’t cheat on you.” Clint finally blurted out.

“Well, I’m glad.” Phil says, and he’s impressed at how steady his voice remains. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Clint takes a deep breath. He nods. And he talks. About Loki, and Barney Barton, and his life at Cirque du Asgard.

And Phil sits, as Clint Barton explains that he’s never stopped being in love with Phil, explains that everything he’s done has been an attempt to prove himself worthy again.

He sits, listening to Clint tells a story that belongs in a crime novel, a story about power hungry circus directors and airtight contracts and threats, verbal and implied.

He sits, and he hears the words, but what he’s reading is the changing expression on Clint’s face, alternately defeated and reluctant and angry and relieved. He sees a man that he used to know, careful and impulsive all bundled up in the same person, all fire and fidgety nervousness and a preternatural level of devotion to his friends often encompassed in a wrapper of self sacrificing bullshit. Phil can’t help but smile, because, yeah, it’s all sorts of fucked up, but that’s the Clint Barton he’s always known, and the one he used to love.

Thirty minutes later, Phil’s phone has several texts asking why he’s not downstairs yet, and Clint Barton has just finished explaining why they apparently had a tail for Kate Bishop to evade last night.

“So.” Phil said, because it is a lot of information to process. His instinct is to comfort, to tell Clint that it’ll all be okay, but he doesn’t want to lie, so he sits on his hands.

Clint exhales. “You know, Natasha thought the world of me ten years ago. When I left you, that was the first crack. The first time she was really disappointed in me. And I couldn't tell her then. I was so scared, I couldn't even trust my best friend. She knows now, about Loki and Cirque, but I've got a ledger that’s going to take some time to balance out.”

“Hmm.” Phil said.

“It’s funny, you know?” Clint continued. ”Everyone thought we belonged together, back when I was just a stupid carpenter. And now - now that I've worked so hard and done so much...I’m the least worthy I've ever been.”   

“I don’t think it’s about our current field of employment.” Phil said.

“Yeah.” Clint responds. “I know I fucked up.”

Phil sits, still and quiet for a moment, letting the pieces slot into place. It’s like a puzzle, that until now had several pieces missing, but now assembled, is still an ugly abstracted piece of art.  

“Let’s go get a drink.” Phil said.

“What?”

“Look, Clint. I’m not going to lie. There’s a lot of stuff going on in your life, and in your head, that have to be sorted out. I’m not happy with a lot of it, and I wish you’d trusted me to help you out a decade ago. But today, it’s my birthday, which I’d forgotten about, but I want to spend it with my friends, which includes you.”

“We’re friends?”

Phil runs his hand through his thinning hair. “I know what you want from me. I’m not quite there yet, and I can’t start a relationship with you again, not right now. And I think you understand why I’d be really hesitant to do that. I've forgiven, but I can’t just forget.  I get it now, I know you haven’t had an easy time of it either, but it doesn't change all the things I've had to feel over the past ten years.”

Clint nods, abashed and guilty.

Phil clears his throat, and continued. “But - I enjoyed having dinner with you, and I’d like to have a beer with you, and when everyone comes back up here for late night pizza and crashing all over the floor of my apartment because they’re too drunk to figure out Sunday subway Planned Service Changes, I’d like you to be there instead of sheepishly slinking your way back to an empty apartment. Okay?”

“Why are you being so nice to me?” Clint asked.

“I’m being nice to me. Letting myself trust my gut and have what I want. And what I want is not sitting in my studio apartment being grumpy about my ex boyfriend being a dumbass, it’s celebrating my birthday with my friends. Now, come on. I really need a drink, and so do you.”

Clint ducked his head shyly, but he stood up.

  
“Now come on,” Phil said, ushering Clint out of his apartment. “It’s my birthday.”


End file.
